Stars and Trees
by jikanet-tanaka
Summary: "Out in the Arctic Ocean, an old man dreamed of stars and trees." Simple series of vignettes about family, and what it means to a certain curmudgeon we all know (and love). Hurt/comfort, rated for some unpleasantness (implied child abuse/panic attacks/suicidal thoughts).
1. Age 12

Family was about watching each other's backs.

That's what Ma said and, even though she was known to be a pathological liar (not that her sons knew what it meant, of course), Stan took her words as clear, indelible gospel.

"You kids are Pines, Stannie," she told her youngest child one night, after one of the rare fights he had with his twin. "Both as tough as bark, and as stubborn, too. But under the earth, you share the same roots. You could cut down the trunk, but the tree would still keep on going. Why? 'Cause it's alive through its roots. And that's how the forest survives. That's the same with us. My roots are all twisted together with yours and Fordsie's and your pa's and Shermie's—"

Stan had tried to wriggle out of her lap, but she'd only clamped him tighter instead. "Ugh, Ma! This is way too sappy! And don't call me Stannie!" He'd paused to scrunch up his nose at her. "And I bet Ford wouldn't want to be called Fordsie either!"

Esther Pines had ruffled her son's hair. "Sure, little man. Now, are you helpin' me with dinner or are you just gonna be as useless in the kitchen as your pa and brothers are?"

Stan had jumped at the occasion then, as he did hundreds of times afterwards. He wasn't a smooth operator like big bro Shermie or an absolute genius like good ol' Sixer, but Ma said Stan could be _counted_ on. That had to mean something, right?

 _My little gentleman_ , she'd say and Stan would shoot off to fetch her slippers or a pack of cigarette or even a cup of coffee. He would find her watching TV in the living room, among an entire posse of other women—her sisters, cousins and girlfriends. The air would be thick with tobacco smoke and the pungent smell of their perfume. Stan would then dodge dozens of hands reaching out to pinch his cheeks, before finally carrying out whatever task his mother had asked of him. The completion of his chore would earn him a chorus of delighted laughter from the ladies. _You sure this is Fil's boy?_ they would ask Stan's mom. _He's way better trained than his old man, that's for sure!_ Stan wasn't quite sure what they meant by that, but it sure sounded swell to his ears.

Shermie, for his part, called Stan a pain in the butt. Still, whenever the oldest of the Pines children tried to woo a new girl (which was about once a week), he would always press a penny in Stan's hand, bribing his kid brother for his indispensable cooperation. The ladies were already all over Sherm's bad boy persona, but they just could not resist when they saw him stoically keeping watch over his adorable widdle baby bro, the perfect picture of the cool, responsible older sibling. Sherm and Stan had practised this routine to near perfection. _You're not half bad_ , _for a dumb kid_ , Shermie would often say, before locking his brother in a noogie. _You do have your uses, lil' bro._

And Stanford, of course, was Stan's best bud, his mirror image, the other half of their unstoppable duo of adventurers. Stan would move mountains for Ford, and Ford would do the same, there was no doubt. Stan wasn't very smart or nice or cool, but it was a moot point when he was with Ford: they were a _team_. And when they'd be out of school, the two of them would sail around the world, looking for treasures and cute girls and whatever weird things went up Ford's alley. Ford, being the Pines family's resident astronomer, would study the stars and chart their course, just like the sailors of old, while Stan would serve as the muscle, pummeling up the creeps and cryptids they would encounter on their journey with the same fierceness he displayed whenever he fought the schoolyard bullies off Ford's back.

As for Dad—

"Why are you always looking for trouble, knucklehead?" Filbrick Pines hissed to his youngest child as he sat down next to Stan just outside of the principal's office. The chair gave a hideous screech as Filbrick dragged himself closer to his son. "Did you really have to pick up a fight you couldn't win—again?"

"But they were going after Ford! I had to!"

"It's not an excuse to get yourself beaten up," Filbrick said, his face twitching in the briefest of scowls. "You're here to get good grades, not land yourself in trouble over and over again because your brother can't handle a bit of teasing. Keep acting out like that, and you'll make all of us look bad."

Stan's eyes were burning. "But I thought—I thought you said…" Filbrick had enrolled both of the twins in boxing classes so they could learn to fight off the bullies. Or at least, that's what Stan had believed. Why wasn't Dad happy, then?

"And let your brother handle his own problems, for a change. God knows he has to get thicker skin or else he'll always let others walk all over him."

Stan looked at his hands; his knuckles were chafed raw and crusty with dried blood. Most of it came from him, but some definitely belonged to Crampelter and his goons. Stan's expression darkened at the thought of the bullies. They had ganged up on Ford as soon as he'd gotten to the school courtyard. Stan had seen red when he'd stumbled onto the scene. By the time he had rushed to his brother's aid, Ford had been holding his stomach, wincing, while one of Crampelter's cronies was stomping on his glasses. Ford's possessions had been thrown in the mud. The other kids had kept their distances, no doubt unwilling to become the bullies' next target.

Stan puffed out his cheeks. "I don't think Ford would have been able to deal with those guys on his own…" There had been just too many of them.

Filbrick made a frustrated noise. "Don't give me lip, kid." The man sat straight as an arrow in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Throughout their conversation, he had barely looked at his son, but Stan still felt the sting of his judgment upon him. "Besides, do you really think so little of your brother?"

"N-No," Stan stuttered, "that's not… I didn't mean…"

Thankfully, the door to the principal's office opened before Stan could dig himself deeper. Crampelter and his mother came out first; Stan's heart swelled with vindictive joy as she all but dragged him along by the ear. Ford and Ma soon followed suit.

Stan immediately walked up to his twin. Stanford was staring at his feet with a gloomy expression reminiscent of a kicked puppy. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the frames of his glasses were still a bit twisted. One of his eyes was swollen purple.

"Whoa!" Stan said. "Is it me or you've gotten even more ugly?"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Uglier, Stanley. It's basic grammar." Still, he could not help but return Stan's stupid smirk. "And you should see your own dumb face. You're even worse than I am!"

Stan hadn't seen himself in the mirror, but he was certain that his brother was right: every inch of his face was currently made of pure pain. It didn't stop him from grinning like his life depended on it, however.

Stan gestured subtly behind him, where a surly Crampelter was being scolded by his mother. "At least, I'm not the worst lookin' out of all of us, huh?"

Ford rubbed his hands giddily. "You really did a number on him, bro. Not that he was pretty to begin with, anyway." Then, more quietly, he added, "Thanks, Stanley. I'm—I'm sorry you had to step in and get beaten up again."

"Psh!" said Stan. "Don't sweat it, Sixer. We're bros, remember? Your roots are my roots or whatever."

"Huh…? What's that supposed to mean?"

Stan laughed ruefully. "Heh. Sounded better when Ma said it."

Ford's response was to give him a light punch on the shoulder. "Yeah! Sheesh, for a moment there, I thought you'd gone all _poet_ on me!"

"I do get better grades than you in composition, you know…"

"Not by much!"

"Boys!" came their mom's voice. She and Dad were waiting for the twins by the door. Ma had her hands on her hips and she was tapping her foot impatiently. "If you gotta squabble, do it at home! I've had enough of this place!"

"Yes, Ma'am!" the two boys said in chorus. They both knew they had to look forward to a long week of having to do twice the chores as usual, but neither of them cared. In this one golden, fleeting moment, Stanley and Stanford Pines stood together, bruised but not out, and all was right in the world.


	2. Age 16

Family was starting to get very confusing.

In contrast, the rest of Stan's life was finally starting to click into place. In less than one year the hell that was high school would be over. The _Stan O'War_ was taking shape, looking with each new day less like some wreck they'd dug up from the junkyard and more like something that could sustain a sea storm or two—more like the solid, tangible method of escape he and Ford would use to get out of this dump.

And of course, for the past three months Stanley Pines had been the proud boyfriend of one Carla McCorkle, the owner of the best damn pair of legs in all of Jersey.

She was a feisty one, Stan's girl, fond of monster movies and strawberry milkshakes and—Stan thanked God and everything that was holy in the world—cut-off jeans shorts. She also had a smart mouth on her, and Stan had often seen her take down the cockiest of jerks with a single, well-placed argument (not to mention, she could keep up with the nerdiest of Ford's ramblings, which was rather endearing). But best of all, she had told Stan he was the cutest and sweetest guy she'd ever dated. A compliment from the spunkiest gal in all of Jersey—now, _that_ was something to put a spring in a guy's step.

Ford said she turned Stan's brain to mush, but of course the guy had no idea of what he was talking about. Nerd books taught you nothing about romance, after all.

And so Stan's head was in the clouds as he drifted back home after escorting Carla back to her house, one night they'd gone on a date. Stan was in no hurry to get back. Except for Ford, everyone at home never got off his case. Ma kept needling Stan about his plans beyond high school (she didn't believe 'going around the world in a boat' was a viable avenue), while Dad harped about his failing grades, insinuating that he would never amount to much if he didn't get his act together. And Shermie was no help. Since he'd begun to hang out with his new group of friends, he was almost never home. Stan was starting to think that Sherm just didn't care about his brothers and parents anymore; he was having the time of his life with those lame hippie buddies of his, and the rest of his family simply could not compare.

Nah, as usual, the only one Stan knew he could count on was good ol' Ford.

Stan paused to sigh as he got to his father's pawn shop, above which was located the apartment the Pines family all shared. From the open windows, he could hear his parents shouting. Stan tensed, his mouth going sour. He had witnessed his parents fighting more often than not—both Filbrick and Esther Pines had a stubborn streak the size of a continent, after all—but he'd never gotten used to it as Ford and Shermie had. He couldn't imagine having to scream at Carla. The very idea sounded _horrible_.

Stan made himself as scarce as possible as he climbed up the stairs at the back of the pawn shop. Through the sturdy wooden door at the top of the steps he could still pick up the noises of his parents' heated dispute. Stan went inside, keeping his head low in hopes of not drawing attention to himself. Dad and Ma were having their row in the living room. To Stan's great relief, they barely seemed to notice that he had become an unwilling witness to their marital spat.

Stan was not one to squander such an opportunity; he scrammed to his room without looking back. From behind, Stan heard his father give a snarl, which was then followed by the heavy _thuds_ of his footsteps stomping away. Stan winced as his old man slammed the door.

"Awright, then, _run_ , ya good-for-nothin' varmin!" shrieked Ma. "Go drink your problems away!" She spat out a few choice curses before adding, "Men! Yellow-bellied, unreliable wretches, the lot of them! I can't believe I actually—"

Stan didn't care to hear the rest. He opened the door and disappeared into the room he shared with his brother. Everything was dark, except for the faint light coming from under Ford's bedcovers. The outline of Stan's twin was visible against the pale glow of the flashlight. As Stan removed his leather jacket, putting it on the chair by his bed, Ford stirred, his head poking from under the sheets.

"Stanley! Finally, you're back!"

"Well, if I'd known things would be such a mess 'round here," Stan said, "I'd have stayed out longer." He rummaged through the pile of dirty clothes by his bed in order to find the shirt he wore to sleep. "What the hell's going on, anyway?"

Ford groaned. "Are Dad and Shermie out? I thought I heard someone slamming the door."

"Shermie wasn't there when I got home," Stan explained. "Ma and the old man were fighting." He paused to strip down to his boxers and put on his shirt—and because the current events had left him slighly more shaken than he would have wanted to admit. "Dad stormed off. I dunno where he went."

"He must have gone for a drink," Ford said with a sigh. "It was that bad, huh?"

"Yeah." Stan climbed up in bed. All the fuzzy feelings that had been building up in his chest since Carla had kissed him goodbye were gone. "What's up with them? I mean, it's not like it's out of the ordinary, but…"

"Shermie's knocked up his girlfriend," Ford said quietly.

It took quite a moment for the meaning of his words to dawn on Stan. "What…? Seriously…?" From beyond the closed door, he could hear his Ma going on a vicious tirade—she must have been speaking with someone on the telephone, since neither Dad nor Shermie were there to serve as the target for her wrath. "Shermie's gonna be a dad? Our Shermie?"

"Yeah. Freaky, isn't it?"

Ford's voice was hoarse with disbelief and worry. Stan, for his part, could only think of one thing. _I'm going to be an uncle…?_

"I can't believe him," Ford continued. "He's known her for like, all of three months?" The bunk above Stan creaked as his twin moved. "No wonder Ma is so mad…"

"What's Sherm gonna do?" Stan asked.

"What do you think? He'll marry her and raise the kid. There's no other option."

"Of course there isn't," Stan scoffed. "Sherm's not gonna run out on his own kid. It'll be a Pines—and Pines stick together no matter what."

Ma's old metaphor about trees and forests trickled back from the depths of Stan's memories. That kid would be another bunch of roots weaving with Stan's own set, then. The prospect didn't seem so bad when he looked at it that way.

Ford hummed his assent. "It'll be weird being an uncle," he told Stan. "I'm not sure what I'll be supposed to do…"

Stan laughed. "Aw, c'mon! You'll do great! That kid's gonna have the two best uncles ever, I tell ya!"

Carla had already told Stan was a natural with kids. She always asked for his help whenever she was stuck babysitting her younger siblings. The scamps clearly thought Stan was the coolest person they'd met, so he could never say no (Stan enjoyed being around the lil' gremlins as well, but admitting it out loud would have broken the carefully constructed tough guy image he was trying to maintain). Of course, since it also usually earned him a coy grin from the girl with the best damn smile in all of Jersey, Stan never thought to refuse anyway.

"Y-You think so?"

"Of course! Think of all the nerdy things you could teach 'em!"

"Y-Yeah…" said Ford. Then, he added, with more assurance, "Yeah! It could be fun!"

In the distance, Ma continued to spew her vitriol. She was peppering her rant with Yiddish, so now Stan couldn't understand half of what she was saying. Ford peered down from the top bunk. Through the gloom, Stan could see a bewildered smile emerging on his brother's face.

"Boy, she _really_ is pissed!" Stan said.

Ford chuckled. "She sure is." It was a while before he spoke up again. "Do you," he began cautiously, "do you think Mom and Dad still love each other?"

"Huh?" Stan said. "What's that got to do with anything? Of course they do! They're married! What makes you say that?"

His brother remained silent for another few seconds. "I don't think Shermie was planned," Ford said, sounding a bit dejected. "Do you think Mom and Dad wanted us? Do you think we were a surprise?" _A bad surprise?_ Stan inferred from his twin's words.

Unbidden, a memory came back to Stan. That night he'd been trying to sneak his way home well after his curfew; it had been after one of his first dates with Carla, and he simply hadn't noticed just how late it had gotten. Stan had been climbing up the stairs leading up to the Pines family home, when he'd heard raucous laughter coming from inside. Cursing under his breath, Stan had carefully pushed the door open and taken a peek inside. The living room had been empty. The voices had been coming from the kitchen. It was then that Stan had remembered; it was poker night for the old man and his buddies. Stan had squeezed through the slight opening, before slowly creeping his way back to his room.

"You know how it is!" Dad had said with a gruff chuckle. It had been enough to startle Stan to a stop; Dad usually laughed so little. "You go to the movies, the girl gets scared, she snuggles up next to you… then next thing you know she's poppin' out a kid and your life falls apart _—what?_ Stanley, what the hell are you doin' there? Can't you see I'm playing with the boys? What did I say about eavesdropping, kid?"

Stan had been unable to move or say a word. His dad's friends were snickering behind their beers, but the man himself exuded bad humour like a thundercloud crackled with unspent energy. "You've got somethin' to say? No? Then, don't jus' stand there, get your ass movin'!"

Stan hadn't needed to be told twice; he'd scrambled back to his room without so much of a squeak.

Back then, Stan hadn't known what to make of his father's words. Obviously, Filbrick had meant it as a joke… right?

"They did want us, stupid," was all he said to Ford. "Shermie told me so. Ma really wanted another kid, so she begged Dad." Filbrick had been the one to choose the twins' names, however, since Ma had named Sherman. When the man had been presented with not one but two babies, he'd been put on the spot. In the end, he had just thrown in the towel and named them both Stan.

"Oh," came Ford's response. It was only a single sound, but Stan could feel his twin's relief in the word. "Alright, then."

It was only after Ma had stopped yelling and Ford had gone to sleep that Stan stopped to think.

Stan's parents had wanted one more kid after Shermie, sure. But they hadn't necessarily wished for _twins_.


	3. Age 24

Family was all take and no give.

Stan had been driving for the past eight hours, stopping only to refill his car and take the occasional piss. Everything around these parts was dry, yellow grass as far as the eye could see, with no tree silhouetted against the rocky cliffs on the horizon. Towns were few and far between. The temperature had risen to sweltering heights in the day, but now Stan's light coat was not enough to keep the ambient coolness of the evening from sucking up his body heat.

Stan shivered as he lit a cigarette. He'd parked his car near a gas station that had been closed for the night, knowing he'd have to fill up the Stanleymobile first thing in the morning if he wanted to get somewhere the next day. The place must have looked shady enough in daylight, but in the near darkness it was downright spooky. Next to the rather ramshackle building, Stan could spy a payphone. He counted his loose change and found he'd have enough to make a call back home.

Stan spat on the ground and put his money back into his pocket.

He lay slumped against the hood of the El Diablo, stretching his arms. Above him, there was not a cloud in sight. Stars traversed the infinite darkness in clusters of little white dots. There were so many…

A lifetime ago, before things had gone to hell, Stan had known the names of almost every constellation. He and Ford had spent so much time staring at the night sky, either through their window from the second floor or, when they had been lucky enough to negotiate a late curfew, from the beach where they worked on the _Stan O'War_. Of course, Ford had memorized the histories behind every important astral body; he could gush for hours on end about the topic, finding in Stan a surprisingly inquisitive and attentive listener.

Ford had been eagerly looking forward to stargazing while they would be out at sea on the _Stan O'War_.

"Think of how bright the stars will be in the middle of the ocean!" he'd kept telling Stan. "I can't wait to see 'em!"

Stan sighed and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

Clearly, Ford hadn't been excited enough about the prospect, since he'd ditched Stan at the first convenient moment.

Because when Filbrick had grabbed Stan by the collar and thrown him on the cold sidewalk, Ford had only watched from their bedroom window without saying a word. When their father had flung a bag at Stan's feet, Ford had turned his gaze away. And when Stan had called out to his twin for help, raising his hand in a feeble echo of all the high-sixes they'd shared throughout seventeen years of existing together, Ford had drawn the curtains.

The image was burned into Stan's memory. He only had to close his eyes to once again see the disappointment, the _disdain_ twisting Ford's features as his face disappeared behind the drapes.

 _Some best friend he turned out to be…_

Stan hadn't meant to sabotage Ford's project, he really hadn't. He had expected Ford to understand, he'd thought his twin would see past the stupid mistake and realize the opportunity now within their grasp. But Ford had instead gone off the rail, and his outburst had thrown a match on the smoldering embers that always burned behind their father's stony façade, setting off an all-consuming blaze.

Their father, who had said that night that Stan was nothing more than a worthless bum leeching off his more successful brother.

(Their father, who in the same breath, had also possessed the nerve to call Ford the family's meal ticket.)

Stan's cigarette had gone out. He lit another, glancing to the nearby payphone. He played with the loose change in his pocket.

"Oh, hell, why not," Stan said to no one in particular. He walked up to the booth and inserted a dime. He coiled and uncoiled the cord around one finger as the phone rang. If his calculations were right, it was still evening back in Jersey.

"Hello, this is the Pines residence," Esther Pines' voice finally came from the receiver.

"Hey, Ma," Stan said, as nonchalantly as possible.

Her response was a little gasp. "Oh—oh my stars, Stanley, is that you?"

"Yep. Just checking in. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

There was a choked sound from the other end. "Oh, my sweet baby, it's been far too long… where are you? Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Stan ignored the twinge in his heart and only said, "I'm on the road again. Work's been taking me places. Never a dull day, heh."

That last part wasn't really a lie; his last jig had involved a furious scramble away from the police which had ended in a shoot-out between the cops and the guys for whom Stan had been smuggling stuff across the border. That day, Stan had learned a whole new slew of Spanish swearwords, which, in his honest opinion, had thankfully added a silver lining to the whole debacle.

"Oh my goodness, Stanley, please tell me you've been taking good care of yourself. We've had no news for the past year and we… we were all thinkin' the worst…"

Stan rolled his eyes. _Not your best fib here, Ma. Gotta do better if you want to pull a fast one on me._ "You know me, Ma. Strong and stubborn as bark, as you used to say. Nothing can get me down."

"S-Stanley, I—"

"How's Ford?" Stan interrupted her. "Still wallowing in his misery at that lousy excuse for a college?"

"Oh, uh," his mother said, hesitating, "he's working on his PhD, actually. H-He… he's doing it three years ahead of schedule, y'know? Aced through his degree before that."

Stan grasped the phone a little tighter. Of course he had. Of course Stan's brother was on his way to become one of the brightest minds this country had to offer, while Stan himself had nothing to his name but a few broken business ventures and a string of, well, _'ex-business partners'_ that would gladly beat the snot out of him if given the chance.

Perhaps Ma had expected Stan to offer his congratulations. He only remained silent, waiting until she spoke again. Stan knew by heart what she was going to say next. He anticipated the rage and shame that would bubble up in his guts as she asked him, no, _begged_ him to come home. And as always, Stan's response was the same. He laughed it up, saying he had somewhere else he had to go. He was a guy in demand, see? Business was booming, and he just couldn't drop everything in order to run home like a cowed little boy. It was the worst fib Stan had ever told, a load of crock told to a woman who just happened to be a liar by trade.

Ma could have ratted out his lie as easily as Dad could swindle money out of some unsuspecting rube, but she never did. She clearly didn't give enough of a damn about Stan to pry out the sordid details hidden behind his fanciful stories. Just as she hadn't cared enough about him to go against Filbrick when Stan had been kicked out of the family home, seven years ago. So, Stan would not give her—or Dad—the pleasure of seeing him return with his tail between his legs. Instead, he waited for her to say the magic words that would get him to change his mind.

 _Apologize, dammit. Say it was a mistake to throw your teenage kid out the streets like he's yesterday's garbage. Say you're sorry, and then get Dad to say he's sorry too._

But, as always, the awaited apology never came.

"Gotta go, Ma," Stan said, bluntly cutting short to the conversation and rudely ignoring the sobs that filtered from the receiver. "Haven't got much time left. See ya." And he hung up the phone.

To Filbrick and Esther Pines, Ford was nothing more than an easy way out of a miserable lot in life. And Stan… Stan was the lying cheat who kept brazenly riding on his brother's coattails rather than become his own man.

They never gave Stan his chance, so he would not give them theirs.

(But more than anything, Stan didn't want to prove them right—didn't want to come home like the failure everyone believed him to be.

Because, deep down, Stan knew they were right.)


	4. Age 30

Family was having all of your worst mistakes thrown in your face.

 _Please, come_ , was all Ford's postcard said. The desperation was evident in those simple words. _Please, come._ It had been the first time in more than ten years that someone had wanted Stan around—that someone _cared_ enough to wish to see him in the flesh.

 _Please, come._

 _'I need you'_ could have been a possible meaning of Ford's written plea. _'I miss you'_ , it could instead signify.

 _'I'm sorry'_ , a part of Stan wistfully wished it could mean.

Stan was aware that keeping his hopes up was foolish. He'd been burned before, more often that he could count: his checkered love life and numerous stints in prison attested to that. He had spent the last twelve years—no, his entire _life_ —bending himself backward to please other people. But this was Stan's brother, his best friend since birth. Ford would not try to play his twin for a fool… would he?

Stan really should have known better.

"Stanley, you don't know what I'm up against!" Ford had raved to Stan. "What I've been through!"

 _"No!_ " Stan had hollered in reply. "You don't know what _I've_ been through!"

 _None_ of them did. Stan's family cared very little that he had spent the better part of a decade living out in his car. They had never learned that he'd gone to prison—not once, but _three_ times. They didn't know that he'd been beaten and shanked and _shot_ , that he'd been left to suffocate inside a car trunk, that there had been several times in his life when he had thought, _'This is it'_ and had almost let himself drift off to the great unknown with a smile teasing his lips.

"Meanwhile, where have you been?" Stan snarled. He gestured to their surroundings: the cavernous space of the secret basement under Ford's cabin and, more importantly, that freaky portal gizmo looming just behind the two of them. "Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money… because you only care about yourself!"

"I'm selfish?" Ford's answer came with a note of hysteria. " _I'm_ selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?!" He grabbed his face with both hands, his pupils shrinking to mere dots. When he'd greeted Stan at the door with a loaded crossbow, it seemed as if Ford had lost his fair share of screws, but now the guy really looked like a case fit for institutionalization. "I'm giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!"

 _Worthwhile._ This single word buzzed into Stan's ears, drowning out every other noise that left Ford's mouth, smothering the last bit of rational thought still racing through his brain. _Worthwhile._ Deep within Stan's memories, Dad's voice raged on, the man's shade spitting out all of Stan's failures and inadequacies. _The first worthwhile thing I could do in my life._ So by elimination, Ford thought nothing Stan had accomplished in his three decades of living amounted to anything.

"Well, listen to this!" Stan yelled back. "You want me to get rid of this book? Fine! I'll get rid of it right now!" He whipped up his lighter from his pocket, holding the journal containing his brother's research notes above the wavering flame.

And Ford had _attacked_ him.

The next few seconds had been a blur of rage and pain. The two brothers had fought for the journal, their two scuffling forms draped under the ominous red lights of the machines as they beeped to life around Stan and Ford. Then, Ford had kicked his twin against a console, and the world had flashed white in front of Stan's eyes, the agony disconnecting him from any other outside sensation. The brand had burned a fiery path through every layer under Stan's coat, and the flesh had sizzled and hissed while he screamed himself hoarse. Ford had stepped back, shame and distress haunting his features. Stan had not seen—had not _cared_ about the guilt rippling on his brother's face; he'd lunged at Ford, growling like a wounded animal.

And then red had given way to blue, and Ford's feet had left the ground, his weight drawn by the inescapable pull of the portal, and with a scream and a burst of azure light Stan's brother was gone.

That had happened a month ago.

And now Stan was left with nothing more of his twin but a pair of glasses, a journal filled with incomprehensible babble and a rundown shack lost smack in the middle of the woods.

Stan fluctuated between utter despondency and manic desperation. Some days, he could not even budge from the couch where he slept—or rather, _attempted_ to sleep—each night. On others, he shot off to the basement before daybreak, tinkering on the portal for hours on end without pause; he'd then wake up the next morning with the worst of cricks in his neck from falling asleep on the job.

Still, despite all of his efforts, the machine in Ford's basement remained terrifyingly silent and still.

When he was not in the underground lab, Stan explored his new surroundings: the creaky, cluttered cabin his brother had called home for the past years. The place did little to assuage Stan's anxieties. Whenever there would be a snowstorm, the wind would howl through the rafters like some sort of brutish creature, one that would prey on the tiny bits of resolve Stan managed to scrounge up every day. Other nighttime noises—the scratches of little paws outside in the snow, the groans of the wood as it twisted under the assault of the weather, the beastly growls coming from the forest—added to the ensemble in a distressing mishmash of sounds, leaving Stan cowering in the darkness like a stupid kid instead of a grown-ass man.

Stan didn't think he could hate a place more than he hated this rickety shack.

Ford's cabin was also an utter mess, and that cranked Stan's worry up a notch. His twin had never been exactly a neat person, but there had always been a certain order to his frenzied bouts of chaos. But this… the animal skulls and sci-fi thingamajigs and other assorted junk accumulated in every corner in haphazard piles, the books and notes and graphs filled to the brim with insane scribbles, the boarded-up windows and doors, the lone operating table covered with bloodstained medical equipment (now, _that_ had been an unsettling discovery), the pantry stuffed with canned food and, Stan was startled to discover, an array of weapons hidden behind the beans and brown meat…

Well, it left Stan wondering if he had stepped into the house of a madman.

More days passed, and Stan remained rooted in his brother's now desolate home. Each new discovery left him questioning Ford's sanity. For one, there was the journal that had started this whole mess: the book was crammed with codes and weird crap about the supernatural. At first, Stan had written it off as the ramblings of a stressed-out mind, but now that he had gone through all of the stuff Ford had left behind, he had come to two conclusions: one, Stanford Pines had been insane enough to throw away a brilliant future (read: possible _billionairedom_ ) to go study spookums like some conspiracy-obsessed nutjob; and two, the freaky phenomena and mysteries that Ford had been researching were all probably _real_.

After all, how else could Stan explain the day he'd found some living, _breathing_ garden gnomes (complete with red pointy hats!) digging through the kitchen trash?

Stan had grown even more uneasy one day when, after opening a closet, he'd ended up buried under an avalanche of bizarre paraphernalia—rugs, statues and tapestries, all depicting the same image: a single eye framed by a triangle. In some cases, the symbol had been violently crossed out with reddish brown paint (or at least, with something that Stan _hoped_ was only paint). Stan hadn't known what to make of this eerie new development.

Just what the hell had happened to the cheerful and curious boy who had taught Stan the names of the stars?

At least, the burn mark on Stan's back had stopped smarting so much. It had healed nicely. At superficial glance, it only looked like some sort of bizarre tattoo rather than the result of a rather nasty wound. Still, whenever Stan lay awake and alone at night, the brand often began to sting once more, like a phantom pain flaring up to remind him of what he'd lost.

To remind him of his worst mistake, the last one in a long line of many.

As the snow melted outside, so did all of Stan's hopes. Soon, someone would come around, and the jig would be up. Stan had barely a peso to his name—nowhere near enough to pay all the expenses on Ford's house. And once the law would get involved, Stan would forever lose his chance of saving his twin. He'd be stuck behind bars while some bigwigs would get their hands on that portal. There was no doubt that they would dismantle Ford's creation in an effort to reverse-engineer the otherworldly and near miraculous technology that happened to power up the machine—dooming Stan's twin to a cruel fate beyond the known universe.

And then Stan would have to add 'brother-killing' to his growing list of sins.


	5. Age 40

Family was playing the people around you like a bunch of second-rated fiddles.

Stanley Pines had been dead for ten years now. On the fourth of July, 1982, somewhere in a thick forested area of eastern Oregon, the young grifter had crashed a stolen car into a tree. His body had been crushed under the violent force of the impact, killing him instantly. The car had then caught fire, turning the vehicle into a wreck of blackened metal and the driver into a charred, almost unidentifiable corpse. The story had run in every local paper in Oregon since foul play had been suspected in Pines' death; the investigation had found that the brakes on his car had been damaged at the time of the accident.

It was the best con Stan had ever pulled.

He'd settled nicely into his new life. His profits were good—nothing extraordinary, but after more than ten years of cycling between homelessness and a level of poverty that barely rose above that, Stan was ready to take just about anything life was going to throw at him. The townsfolk never suspected the switch-up. After investigating his new home, Stan had become quickly aware that the people of Gravity Falls had never gotten to know Ford much, making it easy to slip undetected within their midst.

It was the perfect opportunity to finally get rid of Stanley Pines and begin anew.

"Stanford" Pines, man of mystery, was nothing like the reclusive and paranoid scientist who had come to live in Gravity Falls nearly two decades ago. He wasn't exactly like the dunderhead who had brought only ruin and heartache to his family either. "Stanford" Pines, charlatan expert on spookums both real and imaginary, walking nightmare for the wallets of tourists everywhere, was an abominable amalgam of the worst both brothers could offer: Ford's scornful cynicism added to Stan's self-absorbed greed. Nobody in their right mind would want to associate with such a despicable excuse for a man.

And Stan was perfectly okay with that.

His days were filled with smiles that had all the sweetness of a shark's grin and handshakes expertly designed to bring the money out of some poor sod's pockets. His nights, on the other hand, were spent alone in the dreary coldness of the basement under Ford's house—or, as it was now called, Stan's Mystery Shack.

Despite ten years' worth of desperate struggle, the portal had showed no hint of coming to life.

Yet Stan trudged on and persisted on existing. He'd screwed up and deprived the world of someone that was ten times the person he could ever hope to be. The least Stan could do was to devote every waking hour in an attempt to save him, even if it meant overstaying his welcome for a few more years.

(After he would get Ford out of the portal, well…)

And so for ten years Stan had cried out, "Step right up to the Mystery Shack, folks!" and conned suckers out of their hard-earned money, exploiting the plebe's gullible love of the supernatural. It was a thankless, cheerless life, but Stan had a roof over his head and food on the table, which was more than what he had for a pretty good chunk of his adult life. And swindling out rubes turned out more fun than Stan had expected, which was a plus.

Of course, Stan, like the perfect idiot that he was, nearly threw it all out for a chance to pretend he had a family once more.

"Ma's dead, Stanford," Shermie announced to him over the phone, on a cold January night. It was the first time in years Stan had heard from his eldest brother. Shermie's voice took a belligerent quality when he added, "Funeral's in two days. Try to be there. She's never forgiven you for not showing up when Stanley died. At least make an effort this time, for Ma's sake."

 _For Ma's sake._ Any words Stan could have said choked in his throat before they could get out. After Shermie hung up, it had taken all of Stan's strength to get his legs to move him out of the living room. He crossed the entirely of his home in a daze, as if he'd taken a few hits in the ring, and plopped down on his bed.

 _Ma's dead._ Stan's mother, whose eyes had always crinkled in a smile whenever she called Stan her little free spirit, whose smooth, confident voice had kept cracking whenever she'd pleaded for him to come back to his family, who'd all but broken down when, ten years ago, she had contacted Stan to tell him that his twin brother, that _Stanley_ , had been found dead.

 _Oh, my baby boy, my little star,_ she'd wailed, _dead in a ditch so far away from home._ _I've failed him, I've failed him, and now he's gone and I can't do a damn thing to help him anymore!_

Stan buried his face in his hands. _Deep breaths now, Stan._ He knew what was coming. He knew perfectly well the torrent of emotions that would soon engulf him, wrestling control of his body from the rational side of his brain. It had happened fairly often in those lonely days of wandering across the country.

It had become a frequent occurrence in the years following Ford's disappearance.

Stan removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, inhaling and exhaling in slow, controlled gestures. _That's it, Stan, deep breaths now, deep breaths…_ Still, despite the soothing mantra, his heart pumped harder and faster, ramming painfully against his ribcage. Goosebumps prickled his skin, raising the hair on his arms. Dry sobs shook his shoulders, and Stan hugged his large frame, his breathing growing laboured and painful. _Keep going, you're doing okay, you're doing fine._ But all he could think about was that the last time he'd spoken to his mom she had believed him dead.

What kind of kid did that to their mother?

 _You know perfectly well the answer to that question_ , murmured a little voice Stan knew all too well—the little voice of guilt. _You know it, you know it, you know it—_

Stan's fingernails dug into the bare skin of his arms. An invisible weight pressed down his chest. _No no no, shut up, don't listen to what it's saying, keep cool._ He hiccupped and squeezed his eyelids shut. Stan struggled to raise a shaky hand to wipe the tears that had been threatening to fall down his cheeks. He puffed out slowly through his mouth and focused on the monotone _tick-tock_ of the clock. After a while, Stan's heartbeat began to slow down. He let the sadness, the shame, wash over him. Finally, the upheaval crawled to a stop, the tide that had been crashing over him retreating for the time being. When Stan then stood up, it was with a clear mind and a resolution clenched close to his heart.

He was going to say a last goodbye to his mom even if it meant destroying everything he'd built over the last decade.

It was somewhat a blessing that Ma's funeral happened in the middle of winter. With a pair of Ford's gloves and some cloth stuffed down the spaces for the additional fingers, no one would notice that Stan's hands lacked one appendage each. As he drove down to Jersey, Stan practised speaking in Ford's voice. It was eerie to hear his brother's voice coming out of his own mouth— _too_ eerie, in fact, and so after a while Stan just fell silent, leaving only the scratchy noise of the radio as his sole company for the long trek from one side of the country to the other.

After all, it had been hard enough to put on Ford's old duds and look in the mirror the morning he'd left.

The funeral home was close to his father's pawn shop. Stan remembered the musty smell that hung in the air, the carpet that was discoloured in places, and the poor lighting from the lack of windows and the cheapness of the fluorescent tubes. The services for his maternal grandparents had been performed here. Both times he'd spent the afternoon running and playing pranks on the funeral goers with Ford, something that had earned him quite the earful from Ma later on. Stan sighed as he hid his hands in the pockets of his coat. He had set just one foot in the goddamn building and already his eyes were burning.

Stan went to sign his name in the guest book. A pale, petite woman about his age was hovering next to the stand. Stan didn't recognize her, but her eyes grew wide as she caught sight of him.

"Is that…?" she began, "is that you, Stanford?"

Stan glanced up and down at the woman, wishing he could dredge up some memory of her. Already, the more rational part of him was screaming that this whole escapade had been doomed from the start, that the only thing he could now was to cut his losses and hightail it out of here before things went to hell.

Stan angrily shushed the little voice of reason and summoned all of his natural charm to muster a grin. "In the flesh, lady. I usually don't forget pretty faces like yours, but your name kind of escape me at the moment…"

As she gaped at him, Stan felt his smile freeze. No, no, _no_ , this was all bad: Ford had always been _terrible_ with the womenfolk. Stan tried to cover his uneasiness with a laugh, but the sound came out as a cough instead. The woman goggled at him, seeming even more at a loss for words.

"Sylvia?" came a familiar voice. "Who's this?"

A tall, thin man in his forties was leaving the throng of people who were gathered around what must have been—Stan gulped down, feeling a shiver going down his spine—what must have been Ma's casket. Stan forced his gaze away from the wooden box, instead directing his attention on the man presently frowning at him. His black suit was ripped right above the heart. He looked like some grey-haired, bearded version of Ma.

"Stanford!" the man said. "It _is_ you! I… well, from a distance, you kind of looked like…"

"Sherm?" Stan ventured. "Holy Moses! Lookit you," Stan motioned to Shermie's impeccable suit and well-groomed beard, "bein' all respectable and stuff. Who are you and what have you done with my shaggy-haired bum of a brother?"

Thankfully, that earned him a chuckle from Shermie. "Well, that's how life is, isn't it? Things change, and you can only keep going forward." He put his arm around the lady who had greeted Stan. "You _do_ remember my wife Sylvia, right, Stanford?"

Stan finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together. This was the mother of Stan's nephew Ethan. She and Shermie were still together, even after all these years. Something heavy and painful settled in the pit of Stan's stomach at the sight of them standing side by side together. Now that he had his arm around her, Shermie seemed to stand a little straighter, and a bit of colour had returned to Sylvia's cheeks.

Stan swallowed back the nameless feeling and said, "'Course I do. It's good to see you both. 'Specially considering the, um, _circumstances_."

Shermie squeezed his wife's shoulder. His eyes were drawn to the casket behind them. "Yeah. It's sad that it took Ma dying for us to see each other again. But… but I'm sure she'd be happy to have us both here."

"She… she would," Stan grunted.

There was an awkward silence, then Shermie said, "I'm going to get Dad. He'd want to see you too."

Stan stilled. Blood thumped in his ears. _No. No, no, no._ "Uh, sure."

"Great," Shermie said. "Wait here, I'll be back soon." And he disappeared into the crowd.

Sylvia's smile was brittle. "I should go get Ethan too. He was so fond of you when he was a kid, I'm sure he'd be happy to see you." She then left Stan's side as well.

Stan stayed behind, taut as a tree trunk next to the guestbook. Some of the mourners were starting to whisper among themselves. Unwilling to meet their gazes, Stan hid his hands behind his back—just as Ford would have done.

 _It'll be fine_ , _dumbass,_ Stan told himself. Fooling Dad would be like fooling everybody else. Most people had always failed to note the obvious differences between the Pines twins, anyway.

 _Dad most of all…_

Shermie soon returned, pushing in front of him some old guy in a wheelchair. Stan's breath hitched as the two came closer. The old man was a bag of bones, diminished and grey-faced. It was a far cry from the tall figure who had cast such a long shadow over all of Stan's childhood.

"Dad?" Shermie told Filbrick. "Look who it is! Stanford's here!"

The old man shifted a bit in his wheelchair. He leveled his gaze to Stan, but his eyes were unfocused, glassy. One of his hands was twitching.

"Hey, Dad," Stan said, trying to summon a sense of civility that the old man really didn't deserve. He turned to whisper at Shermie, "Uh… he… he doesn't look so good…"

Shermie sighed. "Yes, Ma's sickness hasn't been easy on him. He had another minor stroke a year ago, too. Didn't I tell you?"

 _Another_ _stroke?_ The gears in Stan's mind set to work so he could find the adequate response to this new bit of information. "I don't think you did, Sherm. Hell, it really did a number on him."

"Stan… Stanley?" a wheeze left the old man's lips. "Stanley, izzat you?"

Shermie looked stricken. "No, Dad, that's Stanford. S-Stanley's… well, Stanley's gone, remember?"

The old man said nothing. His hands were shaking, and there was spittle near his mouth.

"Yeah, Stanley's dead," Stan said, and suddenly he had no control over what was coming out of his mouth, "he crashed his car, remember? Burned to a crisp when the thing blew up. There was barely enough of him left to bury. Ring any bell?"

Filbrick's face drained of all colours. He began to mutter a string of incomprehensible babble, his deadened gaze jerking rapidly from left to right.

"Stanford!" Shermie admonished.

Stan snorted. "Alright, then. Guess this isn't the kind of things someone wants to hear at their wife's funeral, huh? I mean, I wouldn't know, since I don't have a kid who's kicked the bucket because I threw 'im out of the house, but _—_ "

"Stanford, _stop_ ," Shermie said, a bit more forcefully this time. "This isn't the time!" His outburst did not go unnoticed, bringing everyone's attention upon them. Sherm's neck flushed scarlet.

"Sheesh, sorry for not being _proper!_ " Stan snapped. "I mean, it's not like my twin brother's dead or anything—" Stan's voice caught in his throat. He could not continue with the lie.

Not when he was the real cause behind his twin's disappearance.

(Not when _he_ was the one who'd truly killed Ford.)

"Okay," Stan conceded, "maybe it's not the best time." In the distance, he noticed more people approaching, including Sylvia and a young man whose face bore a certain resemblance to Shermie's. Someone who could only be the presiding rabbi closely followed after them.

"No," said Shermie coldly. "It really isn't. We're here to honour Ma's memory, not air our dirty laundry in public."

"Fine," Stan managed in a strangled voice. "Got it."

His head was still abuzz with conflicting thoughts as Sylvia introduced him to Ethan ( _"He's your uncle Stanford, he used to play with you when you were little, don't you remember?"_ ) and suddenly it was too much, and all Stan wanted to do was to scream at her, at Sherman, at _Dad_ , that he wasn't Stanford, that they'd gotten everything wrong, that they, his own damn _family_ , couldn't even pick up that he was an _entirely different person._

 _Do you even care?_ he nearly exploded right here and there. _Did any of you ever care enough about me or Ford to learn to tell us apart?_ But of course, Stan kept his mouth shut and played his part, the perfect conman to the end.

When Stan left for Gravity Falls the next morning, Shermie offered his fond farewells.

"Won't you at least stay for the week?" he asked Stan. "To sit Shiva?"

"Nah," Stan replied. "I've got things to do back home."

Things that were more important than mourning their mother properly, Shermie must have understood. Still, Stan's brother remained civil, if a bit cool.

"Take care, Stanford," were his departing words.

Stan ignored the bile that rose to his mouth and simply displayed an ugly grin. "Yeah. See ya." His pathological liar of a mom would have been proud.

When Filbrick Pines died the next year, Stan didn't even bother: he stayed in Gravity Falls and worked on the portal instead.

* * *

 _A/N: I... really hope I got the details for the funeral ceremony right, plz tell me if I got anything wrong OTL (*is an atheist of catholic extraction*)_


	6. Age 48

Family was all about fulfilling a very strict set of biological laws.

That's what Stan had kept telling himself these last few years. He'd seen the nature shows, trudged through all of his high school health and science classes, read Ford's weird notes about the biology of paranormal creatures (oh god, _that_ had been horrifying). Family came from hormones a-ragin' and an ingrained desire to sow your little seeds at the four winds—nothing more, nothing less.

It still didn't explain the postcard in his hands.

 _Happy birthday to you, Uncle Stanford! Love, your nephew and niece Ethan and Stella._

Stan could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd seen the son of his brother Shermie. As for his niece-in-law, he'd met her only once, at the kids' wedding. Stan pegged her as the friendly sort, but there was no way in hell he'd made _that_ strong of an impression on her. After all, he was the grouchy recluse relative, not the cool uncle Stan thought he'd grow up to be.

Yet, ever since they'd gotten married, the kids had kept sending Stan two postcards per year: one in June for his birthday, and another for the winter holidays.

Stan squinted at the colourful piece of paper, almost as if he believed it would start revealing its secrets if he stared harder. The handwriting was neat, girly even. It was evident that his nephew's wife was responsible for this. Stan wondered what possessed her to write to the shut-in uncle whom she'd met just that one time. Not because of his winning personality, obviously (and probably not because he'd spent the latter half of her wedding making a total ass out of himself).

Stan only got his answer two months later. He was dozing off in front of the TV, halfway through a marathon of 80's action flicks (bless Schwarzenegger and all his ilk, Stan had always said), when the piercing ring of the phone yanked him out of his torpor. Stan glared at the accursed object like it was some sort of venomous snake before rising from his sofa to grab it. He usually tried to be civil to anybody who thought to call him on his personal line—after all, they could be a potential customer!—but even a guy as patient, as _polite_ as Stan had his limits.

"What?" he all but snarled into the receiver. "Whozzat?"

"Stanford?" Stan heard a familiar voice replying, "… _oh_. I guess this must be a bad time, then."

" _What?_ It's nearly midnight, fer goodness' sake," Stan said, bristling. He nearly hung up on this mystery moron right there on the spot, but then the cogs started to turn in his brain. There wasn't a lot of people who called him by his first name—well, actually _Ford's_ first name—anymore.

"Shermie? 'S that you?"

"Well, yes, Stanford," Shermie said, "it's me. How are you? It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Eh, same old," Stan said, pitching his voice a little lower. "Business's booming, at least."

"Business? Are you still running that trashy tourist trap?" There was a chuckle from Shermie. "What's the point?"

"The point's that I need to pay the bills, brainiac. That science stuff doesn't come cheap."

"I guess so," Shermie admitted.

"So… why are you calling anyway? You didn't miss my sweet, dulcet tones, didja?"

"No," replied Shermie, "it's, well… I'm not sure if you were aware, but I'm going to be a grandpa! Ethan's wife is gonna give birth at the end of the month! Isn't it exciting?"

Stan felt woozy for all of one second. He could remember how eager his sixteen-year-old self had been to meet his new nephew. He could recall Ford's face brightening up when they had both seen the kid for the first time. And he could almost hear Carla telling him what a great dad he'd make one day. _You're a natural with kids, Stanley,_ she had said. She'd laughed even more when he'd puffed out his chest in pride then.

Stan's throat tightened. "A grandkid, huh?" he managed. "Congrats, Sherm."

"Not just _a_ grandkid," Shermie said, the laughter evident in his voice, "but _two_. Stella's having twins."

Stan had to lean on his sofa for support. "T-Twins…?"

"Yep. I guess it runs in our family, huh?"

"Y-Yeah," Stan stammered. "G-Genes and stuff. That must be it."

"Ethan and Stella live in Piedmont, California, if you ever feel like dropping by."

Stan loudly exhaled, grateful for the change in topic. "I know," he said. "Those crazy kids of yours keep writing to me. I still haven't figured out why."

"Oh, that's all Stella. She writes to every relative she's got, you see, and she roped Ethan into doing the same. It's very serious business for her. I'm afraid you'll be stuck with her sending you holiday postcards for the rest of your life whether you like it or not."

"Sheesh!" Stan said, grinning. "You'd think she'd learn not to waste her money so easily." Still, his voice was light with good humour. "Ethan did good. She's a nice girl."

"She is, isn't she? And Ethan's a good kid, too. I'm blessed to have them both."

There was something painfully fake about Stan's smile now, although Shermie, of course, could not see it. "Yeah. Good kids, both of 'em."

"Well, I guess I'll let you sleep, then!" said Shermie. "If you can come visit, I'm sure they'll be delighted. The due date is near the 31st. Until then, take care, Stanford."

"You too, bro," Stan replied before hanging up.

He turned and thrashed in his bed afterwards, unable to find sleep. _Twins,_ Shermie had said. Stan wondered how Ford would have reacted to such an announcement.

 _'Aw, c'mon! You'll do great! That kid's gonna have the two best uncles ever, I tell ya! Think of all the nerdy things you could teach 'em!'_

 _'Y-Yeah… Yeah! It could be fun!'_

Stan groaned and buried his face into his pillow. He slept very little that night.

He spent the entirety of August torn up between two conflicting desires. On one hand, going to California would deprive him of a few days' worth of precious profits. On the other… well, there was no sensible reason to be there for the birth of his nephew's children, really.

Still, even though Stan was aware that it was a stupid, _stupid_ idea, he knew he was going to cave in and go to Piedmont for the twins' birth. Because he was a stupid, _stupid_ man.

And so, some days before the 31st, Stan closed up shop and took the Stanleymobile up for a spin.

He'd driven to Piedmont once, for Ethan and Stella's wedding. The road had been pleasant then, and it was the same now; the sun shone high up in the sky and the wind played with Stan's hair as the El Diablo sped by the other cars. Soon, the forests and jagged peaks of Oregon gave way to flat landscapes filled with yellowed grass, then to the typical vistas of Californian suburbs. Stan turned up the radio and sang loudly, getting a few bewildered—and _revolted_ —stares from the people unfortunate enough to be within hearing range. Stan, grinning like a loon, flipped them the bird.

He arrived at his destination in the evening, which thankfully saved him from the worst bits of traffic that usually plagued the region. He found the cheapest motel the city of Oakland had to offer and booked a room for the night. Once again, Stan did not sleep very well. The darkness of the motel room weighted heavily on his chest as he lay in the bed, the sheets bunched up around him. The little voice of reason kept whispering from the back of his mind, _stupid, stupid, you're such a moron, Stan Pines, what the hell are you doing?_ Once again, he was risking his life's work, his attempt to save Ford, and all for what, a chance to play pretend with a pair of kids who barely knew him?

With a pair of kids who would surely throw him under the bus if they learned just who he was and what he had done?

The next morning Stan awoke at the asscrack of dawn. He drowned most of his coffee in one gulp and looked at the piece of paper where Ethan's number was written, the overdose of caffeine making his hands jittery. Abruptly, he remembered all the times when he'd worked up the nerve to call Ford, only to hang up the moment he'd hear his brother's voice through the receiver. If only Stan had been a little braver, then perhaps he would have been able to help Ford sort out the crap in which he had obviously gotten himself into.

If only Stan had been a little braver, then perhaps he'd still have his brother.

It was this thought more than anything that drove Stan to take up the phone and dial his nephew.

Ethan picked up after only a few rings. "Hello?"

It was calling Ford all over again. Stan's brain scrambled, leaving him unable to come up with a sensible response. _Goddammit, Stan,_ he berated himself, _say something!_

"Who's this?" Ethan asked.

Stan rocked back and forth on his heels before finally replying, "H-Hey, kiddo, it's me, your uncle Stanford."

"Uncle Stanford? It's, well, it's been a while... How are you?"

"Fine, 'm fine," Stan said gruffly. "I'm… I'm in Oakland, actually."

"Really? Uh, that's great, Uncle Stanford, well…"

"How 'bout you, kid? The stork's made its delivery yet?"

"What? Oh, you mean the twins!" Ethan's voice lost all trace of hesitation. "I didn't know you'd gotten the news."

"Yeah, your pa told me. I'm staying on holiday around these parts for the next week." Stan steeled himself, swallowing one last bit of doubt before adding, "So if—if your wife goes into labour while I'm still around, you can always call at the place I'm stayin'. I'd—I'd be happy to see all four of you, y'know?"

"Oh, sure, why not? The more, the merrier, right?"

"Yeah," said Stan. "That's what I thought too."

"Alright! Just give me the number and I'll stay in touch."

Stan's hands were still shaking when he finally hung up. But slowly, like the morning sun peering from behind a cloud after a stormy night, the corners of his mouth curled upward. He spent the rest of the week in a stupidly good mood, going to Oakland and San Francisco to take in the sights (and possibly steal some ideas from his Californian competitors) with the same goofy expression plastered on his face 24 hours on 24. On the evening of the 31st, Stan came back to the motel to find the receptionist waiting for him in the lobby.

"Mr. Pines?" the woman said. "Your nephew called."

Stan's heart leaped in his throat from excitement. "Really? Did he say where he was?"

"Your nephew says he and his wife are in Kaiser Foundation Hospital. I can give you directions, if you need 'em."

Stan could have kissed the woman, even though she appeared at least fifteen years his senior. "That'd be sweet of ya." He leaned on the counter, giving her the best Stan Pines treatment, complete with toothy grin and a waggle of the eyebrows. " _This_ guy's about to become a proud great-uncle."

The woman regarded him stonily and sucked on her cigarette. "Congrats, sir. So, d'you need a piece of paper to jot this down or not…?"

Not even her icy reception was enough to kill Stan's enthusiasm, the face-spanning grin he wore all the way to the hospital was proof of that. Even after it became evident that he'd gotten lost in the maze of hallways inside of Kaiser Foundation Hospital, Stan's sappy smile remained stuck in place, earning him a few sympathetic looks (and even a couple of giggles) from the staff. Thankfully, before Stan's patience ran out, he stumbled upon a familiar face inside the elevator that was supposedly going to lead him to the maternity ward.

The young man was tall and thin, with a mop of messy hair that Stan remembered well. The kid sported a few more crow's feet around his eyes, however. Ethan nearly spat out his coffee when he noticed just who had stepped inside the elevator.

"Uncle Stanford?" the kid said. "You're here! I didn't know whether or not you'd come."

"Heh, the people at the motel told me you'd called," Stan replied, hiding his six-fingered gloved hands behind his back—just in case. "So, how are things? Has your wife already popped out the terrible duo or—"

His nephew's giddy expression told Stan all he needed to know. "She did! Seems like the twins were eager to get out. They're both about six pounds and a half. We were lucky that Stella managed to carry them to full term. She… she did great. I'm so proud of her."

Ethan had a faraway, starstruck look to him. Stan felt a dull pang. He always thought the kid didn't resemble his father much. In truth—and it was clearer now than it had ever been—Ethan was a dead ringer for Ford.

It wasn't so much a physical resemblance—hell, the kid had inherited his grandma's formidable beak nose rather than Filbrick's stout, ruddy schnoz. In addition, his hair sported a hint of red that probably came from his mother's side of the family. Nah, it was in the little gestures that Ethan Pines looked like his long-lost uncle. His quirky, feeble little smiles. His nervous laughs followed by bouts of furious blushing. His brown eyes, bright with curiosity and encircled by deep, dark bags, signs of an active mind that could easily run on fumes. There was something of Ford's spirit in the insecure, but fiercely loving young man currently beaming at Stan.

They reached the room where they'd put Ethan's wife not long afterwards. Stella opened her eyes and yawned as they both came in. Her dark hair was even frizzlier than usual and her cheeks were sticky with dried tears. Despite that, she offered Stan a shaky smile.

"Oh, you're Ethan's uncle Stanford!" she said. "It's good to see you!"

Stan shrugged. "Well, I was already traveling around these parts," he said with practised indifference. "I'm, uh, on holiday, you see? And Sherm had told me that you were about to give birth. So, yeah…" Stan rubbed his jaw, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "here I am."

Ethan's dazed little grin did not waver, even with the level of obvious bullcrap Stan was spewing. Being a new dad must have been one hell of a drug, Stan deduced.

"It's great you could come," Stan's nephew told him. "Do you want to see them? The twins, I mean?"

"Uh, yeah, of course," Stan said. "Hope this old ugly mug won't scare the lil' ankle-biters."

Ethan led him to the bassinets that had been put next to his wife's bed. Two tiny, wrinkly, red-faced infants slept peacefully in the plastic cribs—one was clad in pale baby blue, while the other wore pastel pink. A knot formed in Stan's throat. _Twins…_ Shermie had told him what to expect, of course, but seeing them with his own two eyes was a whole new ballgame. _Dammit, you old fart, keep it together. No tears. Keep it cool._ The boy twin let out an adorable little yawn. Stan felt his lower lip wobbling. _No tears, old man, no tears!_

"Uncle Stanford?" came Stella's voice. "Do you want to hold them?"

Next to Stan, Ethan grinned. "It'd be quite the opportunity. You'd get to hold them before their own grandpa!"

Stan looked at the two new parents with an expression that evoked the keen intelligence of a goldfish. "H-Huh? You serious?"

"Why not?" said Stan's nephew. "You were around when I was born, right? Dad told me you used to babysit me before you went to college."

 _Nah, son_ , Stan nearly said, _you see,_ _that wasn't me but my infinitely-better-in-every-way twin brother. I'm actually your dead screw-up uncle Stanley. I've gone to prison in three different countries and I'm currently committing identity fraud on a massive scale. No one would be insane enough to let me near their precious little sproglets._ Instead, he stuttered, "Y-Yeah, I did, kiddo."

Before he could say more, Ethan handed Stan the first twin. The baby squirmed in her father's hold, but she became still as she was put in her great-uncle's arms.

"That's Mabel," Ethan presented his daughter. "She's a little fighter. She socked the doctor right in the jaw when she came out!"

Stan was in no way ready for the burst of pride that swelled within his heart at this statement. He looked down at his great-niece, his eyes starry with amazement. "She did?" In response, the baby's hands curled into tiny fists. This time, Stan had to bite down his lip to keep a lid on the happiness bubbling within him. "Heheh! A girl after my own heart!"

Ethan was already giving him the girl's brother. "Here, you can hold both of them at the same time." After a bit of wiggling, the twins were both safely in Stan's arms. "That's our little boy," Ethan told Stan, his voice taking a surprisingly melancholic quality. "He's… he's a fighter too."

The boy's eyes were screwed shut, a little crease forming between his brows. Stan peered closer at his great-nephew.

"What's that on his forehead?" he asked Ethan. "Looks like…"

Stella gave a tired little giggle. "Oh, that? Some kind of birthmark, apparently."

"A birthmark?" Stan repeated after her, his voice filled with incredulity. "What kind of kid is born with a birthmark shaped like the Big Dipper?"

Stella gasped. "You mean, like the constellation?"

Her words were followed by an exclamation of delight from Ethan. "It's true! I hadn't even realized! Trust the one lone scientist in the family to notice it, huh?"

Stan winced. "The science guy. Yep, that's me." He could almost hear Ford rattling off the names of the stars as they both laid sprawled in the sand, back home in Glass Shard Beach.

 _'Think of how bright they'll be in the middle of the ocean! I can't wait to see 'em!'_

A quiet sob took Stan out of his reminiscences. Stella had put her hand before her mouth, and her eyes were brimming with tears.

Ethan went to his wife. "Oh, honey…"

"I… I…" she murmured, "I just can't believe w-we've nearly lost him, our s-sweet, s-special boy…"

Stan felt cold all over. "Lost him?" He glanced down as the baby nested in the crook of his arm. "Whaddya mean, lost him?"

"When the doctors got to him, his face was all blue," Ethan explained thickly. "They think the umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck. For a moment, we both thought—" The words died in his throat and he could say no more.

"N-No way," Stan sputtered. "This little guy nearly died?" He could not tear his eyes away from his baby great-nephew. He was just so impossibly tiny, so damn _helpless!_ Hell, his head was no bigger than one of Stan's hands!

The blue-clad infant emitted a small whine. With the tip of his fingers, he brushed his sister's arm. Dark horror pooled deep within Stan's stomach. _This little girl could have grown up without her twin…_

The guilt and the longing hit Stan like a semi-trailer truck. His heart sped up, his breath catching in his lungs. _No, no, no, Stan, dammit, not now, not here._ But of course, Stan's body, in typical Stan-fashion, listened to none of his commands. The blood pounded heavily in his ears. _Don't think about your—possibly—dead twin brother, ya big lug, you're holding two babies, fer goodness' sake! Keep it together!_

Stan turned away from his nephew and niece-in-law, forcing his gaze on some faraway point beyond the hospital window. His eyes focused on the top part of a skyscraper somewhere on the horizon. Stan breathed in and out. His eyes filled with water despite his best efforts. He was getting dizzy. _Keep it together, old man, keep it together!_

"U-Uncle Stanford?" came Ethan's voice. "Are you alright?"

Stan startled, looking down at the two littlest Pines, his eyesight blurring with tears. The twins barely stirred within his arms. In truth, they just appeared… _content_ , unaware of the turmoil raging within the heart of their lying conman of an uncle.

 _You don't care that I'm a phony, do you?_ Stan silently asked the two babies as he fought back the tears. _You don't care that I might have stolen from you from the best great-uncle you could have. You don't care that I might be a murderer…_

In response, the kidlets just slept on. These two hadn't met Stan back when he was Stanley. They would grow up calling him Great-Uncle Stanford instead. Perhaps, in a way, this was a blessing.

Stanley Pines wasn't someone worth knowing anyway.

"Uncle Stanford?" repeated Ethan. "You sure everything's okay?"

Stan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he worked up the courage to face Ethan and Stella again, a huge, fake smile was plastered all over his face. "I'm okay, I'm okay…! I mean, hel _—heck_ , this cute lil' scamp could have died? Talk about freaky!"

Ethan looked a bit… _unsettled_. Whatever expression he'd been expecting probably wasn't the one Stan was currently sporting.

"Yeah…" Ethan muttered after a while, "I can't believe it either…"

His wife wiped her eyes. "But he's with us, now, and that's what important. He'll have his chance to grow up."

Stan swallowed the lump in his throat. _Yeah, he will. They both will._ His little great-niece was clutching the fabric of his suit. Meanwhile, her brother scrunched up his nose in a tiny frown.

 _Hey, kiddos,_ Stan found himself thinking _, there's something I gotta tell you. I'm not your uncle Stanford. Not really. But I know the real guy would love to see both of you. And I'm sure you'd enjoy having that nerd around. So…_

He squeezed the twins a little tighter.

 _So, I'm gonna bring him home. You two will get to meet him. I promise._

One of the boy's eyes cracked open. His sister tugged on Stan's sleeve, her little closed fist not letting go.

They had heard their uncle's promise loud and clear.

* * *

 _A/N: ...what is that? actual happiness in this story?! what in the world...?!_


	7. Age 54

Family was a noisy nuisance.

"Hey, want another tamale?" one of Soos' uncles said to Stan. It was about the third time the guy had asked Stan. And it was about the third time the latter had answered with a stubborn grunt of _'no.'_

"Oh, alright," Soos' uncle replied. Stan watched him leave with a distrustful glare; he had a hunch that the guy would be back five minutes from now.

Stan leaned back against the wall, his hands tightening around his soda can. He'd only come to the Ramirezes' Christmas dinner to get a free meal and maybe shamelessly hit on one aunt or two. He hadn't asked for any of this 'being nice and social' bullcrap.

Around him flared a rapid-fire succession of interjections in Spanish, intersected with loud laughter. Children ran amok through the densely crowded living room of Abuelita Ramirez's home. Stan glowered at every kid who dared to approach him. So far, his efforts had only resulted in raspberries and snickers from the brats. In response, Stan stuck out his tongue at them, fighting against the impulse to just chase after the lil' rapscallions to give 'em a well-deserved whack.

Stan sighed as he attempted to tune out the chaotic mishmash of sounds. _Why did I let Soos talk me into this…?_

Young Jesús Ramirez had waltzed in Stan's life some four years ago with all the grace of a landbound whale, unwittingly sowing more mayhem in Stan's already chaos-filled days. One day, the kid had started to show up in the mornings, always arriving a precise five minutes before the opening hours of the Shack. Only after a month of this bizarre new routine had Stan thought to ask the twelve-year-old just who he was and what he was doing here. The kid had replied happily, "I work here, Mr. Pines! You hired me!"

Oh, yeah. That had been a thing. Stan, ever the master of good life decisions, had hired on a whim a twelve-year-old as his handyman.

It wasn't that Soos was bad at his job. The kid was decent with a screwdriver and knew which end of a hammer to use, which wasn't something Stan could say of his previous handyman. But until he had shot up to reach Stan's height after a sudden growth spurt, Soos had been near useless at fixing stuff like shelves and leaky showerheads. His knowledge of all things mechanical had also been inexistent (he'd wrecked the golf cart more often that he had repaired it, that was for sure). For a long time, Stan had grappled with the idea of laying the kid off. He had made a heartwrenching (at least for the kid) decision when the mystery as to why the boy had latched to him like a bloodsucking leech finally came to a startling twist.

"Kid, I can't pay you for work you haven't done yet," Stan had told Soos one day when the boy had uncharacteristically asked to be paid one week in advance. "Don't your parents give you an allowance or something?"

"Oh," Soos had replied. "Well, um, it's just that… Mother's Day is coming and I'd like to buy something nice for my abuelita. And maybe some flowers for my mom."

Already, the kid's response had tugged at Stan's heartstrings. "Flowers, huh?" At the age of thirteen, Soos seemed to be a better son than Stan had been at twice his age.

" _Uh_ -huh… to put on her grave."

Stan, who had been restocking the shelves through the gift shop, nearly dropped the snowglobes he'd been carrying. "Wait, _what?_ "

"She died a long time ago." Soos' tone had remained oddly light. "I don't remember her much, but I feel like she'd be the kind of person to love having flowers. 'Cause that's how moms are, right?"

Stan's mouth had opened and closed in quick succession. "S-Sure. Maybe."

That had been the first piece of the puzzle to click into place. One month later, when Father's Day rolled in, Stan had kept a close eye on his young employee. Soos had shown up to work with what appeared to be his usual amount of cheer… except that had been nowhere near enough to fool a conman of Stan's calibre. The kid spent the day hovering at Stan's side a little too closely; he laughed at the older man's stupid jokes a little too loudly. He'd been spacier than usual—at one point, Stan had come back from a tour to find Soos in the gift shop restroom, standing ankle-deep in a large puddle. The kid had been surrounded by pipes angrily sputtering out water (Stan had only asked told him to _unclog the toilet_ ). And when Soos had spied his grandma's truck coming up the driveway, at the end of the day, a cloud had gone over his face, a far cry from the usual enthusiasm he displayed around his beloved abuelita.

Stan had walked up to Soos' grandma while the boy had gone to gather his things, curious to get to the bottom of this. "Yeesh!" he'd told the woman. "Kid was acting weirder than usual today."

Maria Ramirez had turned up her nose at him. "That's because today is Father's Day. You should have never forced him to come to work, today most of all."

"Oh, yeah," Stan said, remembering, "kid's an orphan…"

Abuelita shuddered with barely constrained anger. "I do not know whether or not _mi precioso_ 's father still lives. _That man_ hasn't shown his face around these parts for more than ten years now."

"Huh." Stan had found that he could not say more. An invisible hand had begun squeezing his heart. " _Huh_..."

So that was it: Soos' mom was dead. And the kid's dad—well, the guy had run out on his family when his son had been barely out of diapers.

It had become simply impossible for Stan to kick Soos out of his life after that bit of info came to light.

Stan slurped down his soda. One of Soos' little cousins was giving him the stink-eye. Stan bared his teeth at the kid in a grimace. The boy gave him an ugly grin in response before running off. Stan's eyes scanned the dozens of unknown faces surrounding him. He could not find his handyman. Despite his large girth, Soos was pretty good at blending in a crowd.

Stan brought his soda can to his lips again and scowled when he realized it was empty. At the same moment, two of Soos' uncles burst into laughter right next to him, nearly startling him out of his skin. An irritated Stan wiggled out of his spot, only to bump into a trio of teenage girls. Grumbling, he stomped his way out of the living room while the teenagers broke into a series of furious whispers and giggles behind him. Even if Stan hadn't been fluent in Spanish he would have understood that the kids were laughing at him.

 _Ugh_ , Stan thought. He needed a smoke... and maybe a drink or twenty. _Why did I think it was a good idea again?_

After all, this very morning Stan was looking forward to spending Christmas' Eve alone, thank you very much. He would stay huddled up under his favourite blanket and watch those stupid sappy holiday movies until he'd fall asleep in front of the TV, his gut warmed up by the sweet comfort of hot cocoa.

Except that Soos had other ideas, of course.

The doorbell had rung out a little after Stan had finished eating breakfast. The owner of the Mystery Shack had walked up to the door with all the enthusiasm of a cow going to the slaughterhouse,before squinting at the peephole, ready to chew out whoever was waiting outside.

One of Stan's eyes was twitching when he swung the door open.

"Good morning, Mr. Pines!" Soos exclaimed. Bundled up in his winter clothes, the teenager was at least twice as large as Stan.

"Soos, the Shack's closed in winter," Stan said. He wondered when the kid would learn.

"Oh, I know that," Soos replied with a laugh. "You told me last year. And the year before that!"

"Why are ya here, then?"

Soos presented Stan a box wrapped in colourful paper. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Pines! I thought to buy you a little something!"

Stan's expression remained impassible. "I don't even celebrate Christmas," he muttered. Still, Stan took the box from Soos' hands. He thought of the postcard he'd received from his nephew and niece-in-law, a few days ago. Stan sighed. Soos was as dumb as these two. Crazy kids, the lot of them, wasting their money on a crusty old bastard like him…

Stan unwrapped his present. Inside the box, he found a pair of blue slippers.

"I noticed your slippers looked a bit shabby," Soos explained. "So I thought, uh…"

Stan let out a snort: his current slippers had more years under their proverbial belt than Soos himself.

"Uh, they…" Stan said, the tip of his ears heating up, "they seem well made. Must have cost ya a pretty penny."

"Oh, shucks, Mr. Pines, that's not important!"

Stan pinched his mouth, biting down the obvious reply. _Yeah. It is._ The kid was too trusting, too _loving_ for his own good. He had to toughen up one of these days, or else he would end up with his heart grinded into mere dust.

(And Stan would know all about that.)

Soos shuffled his feet. "So, yeah, everyone in my family is coming to my abuelita's home this evening, so I thought—"

"What? You're—you're invitin' me to your family's Christmas dinner?"

Soos' grin wavered a little. "I mean, yeah! You being all alone on Christmas' Eve, it's not right—"

"I told you, the winter holidays aren't my thing," Stan grumbled.

Soos grabbed Stan's hands. His eyes were big and sparkly. "That's why you have to come! It's, like, the best time of the year, dude! Well, that is, after Halloween. And Summerween. And Easter—"

Stan wrestled his hands from Soos' grasp. "Can it, kid. It's no big deal."

"But it is! You can't spend Christmas alone!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "The last time I got to spend the holidays with someone I was about your age. And—miracle of miracles!—I've still managed to survive up to this point despite that."

"B-But you gotta come! It'll be so much fun! After all, my abuelita's Christmas food is the best and you'd get to meet everyone in my family: my uncles and my aunts and all my cousins—"

"I said no—" snapped Stan. But already the gears were starting to grind in his mind. _My grandma's cooking_ , Soos had said. And _aunts_ , the kid had added—perhaps the single, cute-and-around-Stan's-age kind of aunts. Stan's face twisted in a painful scowl. Damn the kid. He was a lot more persuasive than his dopey smile suggested.

"Alright, fine, I'll come," Stan said. "But don't make a big deal out of this, 'kay? This isn't, like, a _thing_. It'll be just this once."

Soos' eyes filled with tears and for a moment Stan was afraid the teenager was going to crush him in a hug. _Oh, hell_ , Stan thought. _What was the only damn thing I asked of him?_

"Thanks, Mr. Pines! You see, it'll be fun! I'm sure you'll all get along great!"

Stan had barely believed him then. Now, he was getting all the proof he needed.

Stan let out a groan at the memory, before hurrying to the kitchen. Maybe helping himself to another plate of Abuelita Ramirez's delicious roasted _pavo_ would make him feel better.

The kitchen was bustling with people coming and going. Stan addressed a suave grin to the ladies and greeted the menfolk with a stoic nod. Soos' relatives replied politely. As always they seemed clueless as to who he was and why he was there. Soos' grandma was busying herself near the stove.

Stan glided over to her. " _Heeey_ , Mrs. Ramirez, ¿qué pasa? Great party you've got there, huh?"

Abuelita continued to stir her soup without looking at him. "Yes, yes, great party," she said rather coldly.

Stan was never one to be deterred by such a frosty reception. "Yep. Great food, great people, what more can you ask? Speaking of great food, I'd like a second serving of that great roasted turkey of yours." He punctuated the last sentence with the most charming look he could muster.

Abuelita pursed her mouth. "Of course you may," she said, sickly sweet. "That's the only reason you came, yes? So you could get a free meal and go home like a thief?"

Stan's smarmy smile froze. "What…?" was all he could say.

Abuelita shot Stan an icy look. He evaded her gaze with a nervous cough. _Oh, right_ , he then understood. Soos' father had skipped town not long after the death of his wife, leaving his clueless four-year-old son in the hands of his grieving grandmother. And from what Stan had gleamed from a few of Abuelita's cryptic comments, the kid's now-deceased grandfather hadn't exactly been the paragon of virtue and kindness Soos often made him out to be.

Granny Ramirez had met her fill of lying shitstains posing as men; it was no wonder she could spot one on sight.

"Heheh," Stan managed after a while, "I guess you got me. Soos's lucky to have someone like you watching his back."

 _…I didn't._

Maria Ramirez did not reply.

"The kid's sweet, don't get me wrong," Stan said. He sighed and continued in a mutter, "I guess that's why I keep thinking he's only gonna get hurt down the line…"

"He's already been hurt plenty," Abuelita said.

Stan shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, you're right. That's why it'd be better to keep an eye out for him, huh?"

Maria Ramirez stopped stirring the pot of _pozoles_. Her eyes were upon Stan again, but this time, there was a flicker of understanding in her gaze. "Yes. You understand where I am coming from, now."

Stan could feel himself blushing. _Ah, goddammit_ … "Don't tell Soos we've talked about this… _ever_. I'd never hear the end of it otherwise."

Abuelita gave a little nod. Was Stan imagining thing or was that a smile teasing her lips? "Yes, yes, of course."

Stan returned her expression for the briefest of moments (but only the briefest because otherwise it wouldn't have been very manly). He filled up two plates with some of Abuelita's turkey roast and set off to look for Soos in the crowd.

The next Christmas, Stan browsed the shops at the only mall that could be found in town. He settled on a cap—it was a simple thing, brown and rather boring in its design. Soos burst into tears when Stan gave it to him.

The kid wore the cap nonstop for the next five years.


	8. Age 56

Family was doing things you never thought you'd be doing.

"Great tour, Mr. Pines!" Soos said as Stan went from the museum to the gift shop. "That six-pack'olope was pure genius, where did you get the idea?"

Stan shrugged. "What can I say, I'm a guy full of surprises." His eyes scanned the crowd of tourists that was now flooding the gift shop. He tried to find a hint of red hair among the children now begging their parents for a souvenir. There was none.

The kid must have scampered before Stan had finished his tour, then.

Stan twirled his eightball cane in his hands. He wandered among the gathered customers, prompting one to buy that _dazzling_ mounted deer head ("Give your living room that extra oomph!"), assuring another that he looked amazing in that purple puma shirt ("Setting trends, now that's all you!") and needling a family of five so they'd buy keychains for all the kids ("You'd make all of your friends at school jealous, wouldn't that be— _so what if none of you need keychains, huh?!_ ").

Not thirty minutes later, the gift shop was empty save for Stan and Soos.

"That's all for today, kid," Stan said. "Go home. See you top in the morning tomorrow." He tapped his watch to emphasize his point.

"Right! Well, have a nice evening, Mr. Pines!"

Stan answered with a grunt. He locked the door after Soos had gone out, then loosened his tie and collar with a dejected groan. _Wonder if that kid will be there tomorrow morning too…_

The girl had started to show up at the Shack almost a week ago. She had first slipped through one of his tours without paying, only to disappear when the throng of tourists had moved to the gift shop. The next day, he'd seen her loitering outside the Shack, noticing her telltale red hair standing out against the browns and greens of the outlying forest; however, she'd scurried off the moment Stan had stomped in her direction.

She was good, Stan had to give her that.

Stan thought he'd seen her again today, at the beginning of his last afternoon tour. The fiery shade of her hair, as always, was a dead giveaway. He hadn't been able to single her out while he was in the middle of entertaining other people, however (the last time he'd confronted a misbehaving customer had ended in an all-out brawl where he'd chased out the man responsible with a stuffed dodo bird), and so once more she'd gotten away.

Stan sighed, going to the kitchen to get himself a soda. _Stupid brat…_ She wouldn't have the nerve to show that freckly face of hers tomorrow too… would she?

She did.

This time she played it safe. In fact, Stan probably wouldn't have caught her if she hadn't thought to pull the stupidest of stunts.

She tried to shoplift from Stan.

Throughout his last afternoon tour, Stan had taken notice of one kid in particular—after all, the hooded youth had been shifty enough to waffle around the museum in a thick hoodie and a flannel shirt even though it was the middle of July. When the visitors had then moved to the gift shop, Stan remained nonchalant, only watching the kid out of the corner of his eye. His suspicions had been confirmed when the brat had swiped a cap from a shelf and put it into the pouch of his—or her—sweater.

Stan leaned on his cane, cocking a brow. Oh, now that was poor form. Stan was almost ashamed for the kid; he personally could have done a thousand times better. Then again, maybe they just needed practise.

Stan strode over to the diminutive shoplifter as Soos escorted the last customers out of the shop. His cane hit the floor in a resounding _whack_. The thief startled, whirling on their feet. A pale, freckled face peered up at Stan, green eyes wide as saucers. Red hair as fiery as flames stuck out of her hood.

 _Well, well, well, who do we have here…?_ "Hey there, squirt," said Stan. "Enjoyed the tour?"

The kid puffed out her cheeks. "Whatsit to you?"

Stan stifled a groan. Of course, she was a mouthy one. God, he needed a smoke… "Where are your parents?" he said, cutting to the chase. "An' is it just me or did you sneak in without payin'?"

Distressed, the kid sent a sweeping look to the gift shop. It was now empty, safe for herself, Stan and Soos.

"Um, Mr. Pines?" the young handyman said as he approached his boss. "What's going on?"

A sardonic smile split Stan's face. "We got ourselves a little thief here. You thought you could pull a fast one on ol' Stan Pines, didja? Well, think again!"

The kid backed up to the wall. "Thief? Me? What the heck are you talking about?"

Stan pointed at the pouch of her hoodie with his cane. "Drop the act, kid, I saw you."

Soos gasped. The girl glowered as she pulled out the cap from its hiding place. It was blue, with a pine tree etched at the front.

Stan snatched it from her hands. "Tch! You're in deep, now, girlie."

"Get off my case, you old fart!" the girl cried out. "You caught me! So stop rubbing it in my face!" She let out a little huff. "And what does it matter? It's just a stupid hat, it's so ugly nobody would have bought it anyway."

"I would!" Soos said. "I mean, it's kid-sized, so it's too small for me, but who wouldn't want a souvenir from the best place on Earth?"

Stan and the red-haired girl glanced at one another. Stan realized with a start that she was mirroring his own expression. Unexpectedly, he almost found himself smiling.

"Yeah, no, I'll pass," the girl replied. She crossed her arms against her chest. "So you caught me. Big deal. I guess you're gonna sic the cops on me, right?"

Stan snorted. "You think I'd involve the cops in this?" he said, incredulous. "What I ought to do is drag your sorry ass back to your parents. They'd be proud to have a thief and a liar for a daughter, I bet." Stan's own dad would have beaten him bloody if he'd been caught stealing (which was why Stan had learned early to make sure not to be caught in the first place).

The girl had the decency to look dismayed, but only for the briefest of moments. When her gaze snapped back to Stan, her eyes were full of defiance and rancor. "Do it! My dad won't give a crap anyway! He doesn't give a crap about anything these days!"

"Wait, I know you," said Soos. "You live around here, right? One of my cousins often babysit a family of four nearby. The Corduroys, I think."

Stan frowned. He peered closer at her, noting the peculiar flame-red shade of her hair and the flannel abomination of a shirt she was wearing over her hoodie despite the summer heat. Yes, there was no doubt. The brat was part of Manly Dan's freckly carrot-top brood. Manly Dan, who was the closest thing Stan had for a neighbour. Manly Dan, who'd so often shown his fair share of typical Gravity Falls-brand offbeatness.

Manly Dan, whose wife had died one month ago.

 _Aw, hell_ , thought Stan.

Now he had his explanation as to why the tiny terror had stuck around.

"So, what now," the girl said venomously, "are we gonna sit here all day? Or are you gonna drag me back to my dad so he can take out the paddle?"

Soos looked at Stan, his brow creasing with worry. Stan shoved his hands down his pockets.

He knew what he was going to say next. He _hated_ what he was going to say next.

"Awright, I'm gonna let you off the hook for now, but only 'cause you do seem to have a knack for this. Shoplifting, I mean. You just stole from the one guy in town who happens to be better than you, is all."

The girl's aloof persona faltered for a moment, and she gaped stupidly at Stan. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me!" Stan barked. "Scram before I change my mind!"

The kid did not need to be asked twice. By the time she'd reached the door, Soos' lower lip was wobbling. Stan groaned, rolling his eyes; the kid was way too soft-hearted for his own good.

"She doesn't look like she wants to go home," Soos said sadly.

Stan gave a noncommittal grunt. He really didn't want to think on the tragic life circumstances of a kid he'd just met.

By now, she had disappeared outside. Soos, for his part, was doing his best kicked-puppy impression.

"I know how she feels," he continued. "Before I started to work here I used to spend days at the arcade playing—"

"Alright, alright!" Stan exclaimed, marching up to the door. He swung it open and addressed the red-haired girl, "Hey, ya lil' gremlin, you can stay here to sulk if you want. Go climb up a tree or whatever it is that you kids do these days. Jus' don't expect me to go easy on you if you try to screw me over again."

The girl's eyes grew big as dinner plates. "… _what?_ "

"Ugh, I thought I made it clear," Stan said, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You can stay here if you don't wanna go home yet… just don't land yourself in more trouble, 'kay? I bet your dad could live without the additional hassle."

The girl evaded Stan's gaze. "Yeah… that'd be a crap move. He'd only get worried."

"Ya think?" Stan told her. The kid's dad must have been plenty worried as it was. _Or at least, he would be, if he's anything good as a parent._

Perhaps he wasn't. Stan threw a glance at Soos, his hands tightening around his cane. Distant memories played at the back of his mind, and suddenly, there was a nasty taste in his mouth. She wouldn't be the first kid with a dumbass dad, after all.

"If you stick around, then I could get you a soda," Soos said, ever the amiable one. "Or maybe you'd like some lemonade better? Or a cone of ice cream, _man_ , I could go for some ice cream right now—"

"A soda would be cool, dude," the girl replied. "I mean, if it's alright with your boss and stuff…" She was looking pointedly at her feet.

"Do what you want," Stan said dryly. "Just remember that you'll be paying out of your own pocket, pal. This ain't a charity."

"Don't worry, Mr. Pines, I'll pay for the lil' dudette. Just take it out of my next paycheck!"

The girl tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear. "Thanks, you guys. And… sorry about everything, sir. I just... I just feel _so_ …" She pursed her mouth and fell silent.

 _...like you want to set the whole world on fire? Yeah, been there, done that..._

Stan waved a dismissive hand. "'S okay. But don't pull that kind of shit on me ever again. I _mean_ it."

Her cheeks pinkened slightly. "Noted." Her face lit up in a sly look. "Heh, I guess you two losers aren't as bad as this crummy place suggested."

Stan huffed, but Soos only laughed. "Don't sweat it, dawg," he said. "What's your name?"

The kid showed a cocky, braces-filled grin. "Wendy. You dorks can call me Wendy."

She didn't know it then, but in the next few years, she honed her pickpocket skills to near perfection. Stan was a master of the trade, after all.

* * *

 _A/N: I so wish we'd had that episode about Stan and Wendy bonding over shoplifing... I bet it would have been amazing..._


	9. Age 60 (part I)

Family was saying yes when you knew you really should have said no.

Stan walked up from the living room to the kitchen in a bit of a stupor. He opened the fridge in a stiff, mechanical motion, his brain still lost up in a fog as it processed just what his nephew Ethan had asked of him.

And just what Stan had said in response.

"Hey, Mr. Pines!" Soos' voice suddenly came behind Stan.

Stan yelped and whirled on his heel, nearly dropping his microwave dinner in the process. Soos was sitting at the table and waving at him.

"Kid!" Stan exclaimed. "What the hell are you still doing here? Shop's been closed for hours!"

Soos chewed on his mouthful a bit more. He was eating a rather soggy sandwich. "It's my lunch break, Mr. Pines. Well, supper break, actually. You asked me to stay after work to fix the washing machine, remember?"

"The washing machine," Stan said, hitting his forehead with his palm. "Yeah. I did."

"What's wrong? You seem to have something on your mind…"

"Huh…?" Stan's gaze darted left to right. "W-What—no, I'm fine, 's nothing."

"You sure? You know you can tell me anything, Mr. Pines!"

"I told you! There's nothing wrong," Stan grumbled. Soos continued to stare. It was starting to get a little freaky. "Uh… right, it's just…"

Soos nodded, prompting Stan to elaborate.

"Uh, my nephew called." Stan groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. _Why am I telling him this…?_

"Your nephew?" Soos' grin was broad _—too_ broad. It pinged as suspicious on Stan's radar. "I didn't know you had a nephew!"

Stan snorted. _That's just the tip of the iceberg of what you don't know about me, sonny…_

"I'd love to meet your family one of these days, Mr. Pines! I mean, you already met mine already, so…"

"Well, I guess you'll have your wish," Stan said. "My great-nephew and niece are coming to Gravity Falls for the summer."

He would have continued, but the words fizzled out in his mouth. He'd said it out loud and somehow it made it all the more real. It was something that was going to happen. Stan had really agreed to watch over his nephew's children for the summer.

"You mean they're gonna live here?" Soos said. "We're gonna have a couple of little dudes running around the Shack?"

Hearing it from another mouth just made it worse. Stan staggered, his head swimming.

"This was a bad idea," he finally managed to wheeze. "I need a drink. Or two. Or twenty."

"Mr. Pines _…_ " Soos began cautiously.

"I need to tell Ethan to call this off." Stan shoved the microwave dinner back into the fridge and headed toward the phone. Soos blocked the way.

"Wait, Mr. Pines, think this through!"

Stan gave him a sardonic look. "I've thought this through, knucklehead. _That's_ why I've realized I was out of my goddamn mind when I agreed to this."

"No, you weren't," said Soos. "You were trying to be nice to your nephew. And maybe you just miss the lil' squirts?"

Stan covered his uneasiness with a snort of laughter. "'Course I don't. I barely know the tykes." He tried to weasel his way around Soos, but it was no good. The young man did not budge.

"Then, maybe you just wanted to get to know them better?"

"W-Why would I want to do that…?" Stan said, trying to inject a snarky edge to his tone—and failing miserably in his attempt.

 _For the same reason you've kept contact with their dad and Shermie, you dumbass._

Because Stan was a hopeless idiot who would never learn.

"Uh, you could always ask them to help around the Shack," Soos' voice snatched Stan out of his thoughts. "Things might run a little smoother with two more pairs of helping hands, huh?"

Stan cocked his head to the side, a grin slowly emerging on his feature. "You know, kid, I think ya might be onto something." He rubbed his hands together in evil glee. "Heheh, free labour! How come I hadn't thought of this before?"

Soos beamed. "I'll help you keep an eye out for them, if you want, Mr. Pines! My abuelita has always said I'm a natural with kids!"

Stan's faked enthusiasm deflated like an old balloon. "Yeah," he said, "good for ya. At least one of us is." He'd muttered the last words low enough so Soos could not hear them.

"I can't wait to meet the lil' dudes! I'm sure they'll have a blast!"

Vividly, Stan remembered the kind of twelve-year-olds he and Stanford had been: bratty, rowdy and distrustful of anything that didn't fit their narrow definition of cool. He sighed. He didn't have the heart to tell Soos that the twins would probably hate their stay in Gravity Falls.

(But perhaps deep inside, there was a part of Stan that wanted to pretend too.)

The next day, Stan announced the news to the only other employee of the Shack. Wendy's eyes peered at him from above her magazine. The teenage cashier was staring at her boss like he'd grown a second head.

"Your great-nephew and niece are coming here?" she said. "Why? The kids set fire to their parents' house or something?"

With his cane, Stan tapped the counter behind which she was seated. "How would I know? The last time I've seen these two, they were barely five." And it hadn't been on the nicest of occasions.

Stan's brother Shermie had just died, after all.

The funeral had been a small, somber affair. Except for Stan, his nephew Ethan and the young man's little family, there had been no other members of the Pines family. The rest of the people in attendance were either friends or relatives of Shermie's wife. Even so, the funeral home had been scarcely filled.

Throughout the entire procession, Stan had remained numb, almost as if he could not summon any sense of grief for the eldest of his two brothers. The people who had come up to him to express their sympathy appeared to be more sorrowful than he was, in a sense. As Stan gazed upon the casket, the morbid thought that all of his family members seemed to die rather young had kept to the forefront of his mind. With him, things would have to be different, however: he _had_ to survive, at least until he'd gotten Ford back from that portal.

(…afterwards, it was all fair game.)

Stan had barely listened to the psalms opening the ceremony. A pall had weighted heavily on him, leaving him little energy to care about what the rabbi was mumbling about. During the eulogy that followed, Stan's great-niece Mabel had scooted closer to her mother.

"They keep talking about Grandpa Shermie," she'd whispered to Stella. "But I can't find him. Where is he?"

Stella had drawn her daughter into a hug. "He's in the casket over there, sweetie. But his spirit is in heaven, now."

The five-year-old had gasped loudly. "They put him in that box?!" she'd exclaimed. "What gives?! Why would you do that?!"

The officiant had stammered, his face turning red. The other mourners had whipped their heads to stare at the girl, their expressions expressing dismay and pity in equal measure.

Only Stan had responded with a chortle. Little Mabel had turned to look at him, her face splitting into a sneaky grin. And so, for a fleeting moment, Stan had thought he'd found a kindred spirit in his great-niece.

Still, the girl and her brother had only been five then. They were twelve now, at the brink of the worst age a kid could be.

Stan shuddered. The full force of what he had done hit him once more. He had allowed two _preteens_ to invade his home and privacy for the next three months.

 _That's it, Stan. You've gone insane. Gravity Falls has finally driven you mad._

"You haven't seen 'em since they were five?" Wendy asked. "Dude, what were their parents smoking?"

"Don't look at me," Stan said, scoffing. "I told you I don't know. And I dunno why I _agreed_."

"Aw, c'mon, Mr. Pines, I told you, it'll be fun!" said Soos. "My abuelita said you need to kidproof the house first, though."

"Kidproof the house?" Stan sputtered. "What's that s'ppose to mean?"

Wendy looked on the verge of bursting into a fit of evil laughter. Soos scratched the back of his head.

"Well, you know, tone down the swearing, make sure they can't find your liquor stash, fix that broken step up the stairs to the second floor," he enumerated. "And maybe you should stop smoking…"

Stan tossed his hands up in the air. "Oh right! Jus' stop smoking, Stan! Jus' change everything about your life, Stan! Abuelita says you should, so it must be true!"

"Didn't they tell you at school that it's bad for your health, Mr. Pines?" said Soos. "My grandpa died from lung cancer, you know… I… I wouldn't want you to…" His voice trailed off, and he did not complete his thought.

"You know that some customers don't like the smell, don't you, Stan?" Wendy said nonchalantly. Stan glowered at her, his mouth thinning into a line. "It'd be good for business if the place didn't stink so much."

Stan let out a string of colourful invectives. Soos and Wendy exchanged a fond glance.

"Fine! You two brats win!" Stan huffed. "But I get to keep my Cuban cigars. These things ain't come cheap."

"Of course, Mr. Pines," said Soos, while Wendy just shrugged.

Stan wagged his finger at them. "An' you jokers better help me with all those preparations. Else, I'll dock your pay!"

Wendy shot him a spiteful glare above her magazine but Soos only laughed and said, "Of course we'll help you, Mr. Pines!"

The month of May had thus been hell on earth. Soos and Wendy proved to be _ruthless_ : they found all of Stan's booze caches, put anything that could be used as a weapon out of reach of little grabby hands, and even forced him to clean up after himself around the house (despite their efforts, that last bit did not stick). Still, when the two youths made for Stan's bedroom, the man jumped in front of the door, snarling.

"Nah, no, _nuh_ -uh!" he told Soos and Wendy. "They won't go in there anyway."

Wendy snorted. "Like you've never tried to sneak into your folks' room, Mr. Pines."

She was actually wrong on that count. Even though Stan had been the worst little shit as a kid, he had definitely known better than to risk Filbrick Pines' wrath.

"Can a guy have his privacy?" Stan said, almost in a whine. His bedroom was the opposite of kid-friendly, anyway. In addition to his boxer's gear and a box full of his old fake IDs, there was, uh, a certain stack of magazines that had been stashed away in one of his drawers. He was certainly keen on keeping the poor kids from ever stumbling onto _that_.

Cutting down the smoking was an equally terrible idea. The lack of nicotine left Stan with frayed nerves and a desire to punch any sucker who dared to ask the same question twice (which, considering the average IQ of the Shack's visitors, was quite the frequent occurrence). Once, he'd been forced to deal with a smarmy stuck-up hipster who'd thought to backtalk Stan at every opportunity. Things… hadn't ended well for the poor schmuck.

Finally came the last week of May and the day when Stan's great-nephew and niece would arrive. On a whim, Stan decided to wait at the bus stop in full Mr. Mystery regalia. When the vehicle finally came into sight at the end of the road, only a small blimp on the horizon, Stan's heart clenched in his chest. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his teeth chattering. He could not believe it. He was having _stage fright_.

The bus came to a grinding halt. The breath Stanley had been holding came out in a slow wheeze through his nose. Behind his back, his hands tightened around his smoke bombs and bag of glittery powder. The bus doors creaked open. Two small silhouettes appeared at the top of the steps. Stan tensed. _Wait for it…_ The two children descended the stairs, lost in conversation. The moment the door closed behind them and the bus took off, Stan put his plans in motion.

In an explosion of light and sparkles, the owner of the Mystery Shack made his entry, striking a pose with his cane. Stan did not hold to his grin for long; the smoke and the dust rose up in a shimmery cloud, making him hack and cough.

The boy twin only squinted his eyes at Stan, but his sister clapped and hopped on her feet.

"Wow!" she cried out. "Are you a magician or something? Are you gonna make a rabbit come out of your hat next?"

Stan goggled at her, still wheezing a little. "What…? Whaddya talkin' about?"

She seemed a bit disappointed. "You should make it part of your act, then. Don't you know that cute little fuzzy creatures make everything better?"

Her brother appeared doubtful. "Don't listen to her," he said. He adjusted his cap before continuing without much enthusiasm, "So, yeah, anyway, I guess you're our Great-Uncle Stanford, huh?" He let out a deep sigh. "Great, just… _great_."

Stan took in the boy's appearance. He was scrawny, with his mom's button nose and a mess of brown hair squished under his cap. His sister's features were near identical to his, but her hair cascaded down her back in thick brown tangles. Despite the heat, she was wearing a woollen sweater, one that was emblazoned with a shooting star. Stan looked back at her brother. His cap was also adorned with a star symbol. Stan stifled a snort, wondering if they had made an effort to match together.

"What if I am?" Stan told the kid.

The boy did not answer, but his twin came forward, extending her hand.

"Well if you're Great-Uncle Stanford, then that makes me your great-niece, Mabel!" she announced proudly as she shook his hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip for such a small thing. "And I'm gonna tell you something that'll just blow your mind. Despite all signs pointing to the contrary, the huge dork next to me—" She paused and dramatically gestured at her brother "—happens to be my twin, Dipdop Dippingshire of—"

"Dipper," the boy interrupted her. "Just call me Dipper."

"Dipper," Stan repeated after him. " _Huh_." He remembered a blue-clad baby sleeping peacefully in his arms, the dots on his forehead aligned in a near-perfect match for a certain constellation. Stan gave a dry chuckle at the memory.

The boy went stiff as a board. "What?" he said, brows furrowing, "something's wrong? You… you think it's weird, you think it's—"

"Whoa, kiddo, calm down!" Stan said with another bark of laughter. _Yeesh, sensitive much?_ Now, _that_ was his luck, stumbling onto what seemed to be yet another little Ford doppelganger.

"Yeah, lighten up, Dipper!" Mabel said, poking her brother in the belly. "Great-Uncle Stanford wasn't laughing at you."

"Yeah," said Stan, "if I was laughing at you, you'd know it. Trust me. Also, first rule of the summer: don't call me 'Great-Uncle Stanford'. Don't. I get one second closer to death every time I waste my time hearing you say all that nonsense. It's just… _Stan_."

"We can't just call you Stan," replied Mabel. "That'd be just boring. And maybe a little rude. But mostly boring."

 _Oh boy, Stan, brace yourself…_ "Yeah? So what would you have in mind, then?"

"Well if there's one thing romance novels taught me, it's that smushing things together always works. So what about 'Gruncle Stan', huh? It's like the ship names of all these celebrity couples, you just squeeze the two names together and—wait, wait, wait, let's add a _'k'_ to make it more cool and hip."

"Oh- _kay_ ," Stan said in response. "Whatever floats your boat, kid."

"Alright, Grunkle Stan it'll be!" She had dimples when she laughed—and it made her look _adorable_ , Stan was dismayed to find. "I bet you're the first Grunkle in the whole wide world, too. Doesn't that make you proud?"

Stan exchanged a look with Dipper. The boy was smiling too, though his grin was subdued, even a little caustic. Stan quirked a brow. That expression wasn't exactly Ford-ish.

No, he soon realized, Stan saw that wry grin every day whenever he looked in the mirror.

The corners of his own mouth curled upward. A split-second later, and the smile was gone. "Alright," Stan said as he grabbed the kids' luggage, "we've wasted enough time already. Let's get going."

"Yeah!" the girl replied. "Let's go home!"

"Home, yeah, that sounds about right," continued her brother. "I'm kind of starving…"

 _Home._ Stan stopped in his tracks, looking at the kids with his mouth agape. _They've never even seen the place…_

"Something's wrong, Grunkle Stan?" asked Dipper.

Stan shook his head. "Wha…? N-Nah, 's fine, let's get going."

"Wait!" Mabel cried out, "I just remembered! I need to take a picture!"

"What? Why?"

"C'mon, Grunkle Stan!" said Mabel. "It's like, our first meeting! It's super special and stuff."

"But we met him before—" Dipper pointed out.

"Bah, it didn't count!" Mabel argued. "Besides, it's not like we remember, right?"

 _I remember,_ Stan thought. He counted the moment when he had held them both in his arms for the first time as one of his most precious memories. But he'd sooner die than say it to their faces.

"Alright, fine," Dipper said.

"Make it quick," Stan added gruffly.

Mabel whipped out a camera from her bag and drew both her brother and uncle closer.

"Say Pines!" she said excitedly.

The light flashed, and Stan grunted, blinking back stars. Next to him, Dipper was rubbing his eyes as well.

"Thanks guys!" Mabel said. "It'll be perfect for my scrapbook!"

"Good," said her brother, "now, let's get moving."

The two children turned to Stan; Mabel's features were brightened by an expectant, but tight smile, while Dipper's frowning face was tense with mistrust.

Suddenly, all the sarcastic responses, all the grouchy remarks Stan could have given tangled in his mouth before they could get out. The twins were in the dark as to what awaited them in the summer stretching ahead… and so was Stan.

It was as daunting as the lifeless silence of the hunk of metal beneath his home.

"Yeah," Stan said, unable to meet their anxious stares, "let's go home."

* * *

Family… family was…

Family was free labour that came with a price—snarky comments and harebrained schemes that left pure carnage in their wake. Family was going to get your favourite dessert from the fridge only to realize it'd been scarfed down by a pair of ravenous preteens. Family was going to bed with the aches of your back flaring up even worse than usual from keeping up with the kids' antics all day.

Family was finally having someone to follow you on your fishing trips.

Family was the pitter-patter of feet rushing to the kitchen in the mornings and fierce food fights erupting in the afternoons. Family was finding glitter and stickers and chewed pens _—everywhere_. Family was late-night movies and a great bowl of popcorn shared by all and laughing til the soda was coming out of your nose.

Family was grins and raspberries and tickles and noogies. Family was a twelve-year-old boy shyly asking you for tips on wooing the ladies. Family was a cuddlebug girl who attacked you with surprise hugs every day. Family was piling up on the sofa and falling asleep all tangled up together.

Family was being told _'love you, g'night!_ ' for the first time in over forty years.

Family was having your heart nearly leaping out of your throat as the men in black dragged the children away from you. Family was making a desperate scramble back home as three decade of labour finally came to fruition—at the worst possible time. Family was begging these two children, the new centre of your universe since your best friend had been ripped away from you, to _trust me, please, everything I've worked for, everything I care about, it's all for this family._

Family was seeing this little girl, this starry-eyed child, floating up close, _too_ close, to the gaping blue maw of the portal and wanting to _scream_ , because, _no_ , _not again_ , you could not lose someone you loved again. Family was being stabbed with a hundred needles as the girl's brother cried out, fear and anger distorting his voice (anger, yes, because he'd been betrayed, and now _that_ was a bitterness that you had also tasted, a lifetime ago). Family was hanging for dear life to that steel pipe while everything was engulfed in a white hell, and thinking, _I screwed up again_ , _I've been given a second chance and I screwed it up._

(Of course. Stan had been foolish to think it could have gone otherwise.)

Family was hitting the ground in a painful snarl of limbs and wondering, worrying, _are they still here,_ _are they alright?_ Family was relief mingling with the tangy remnant of fear as you heard them draw a breath. Family was a chill wrapping around your entrails as you waited, prayed, _is he here, is he alright?_

Family was a silhouette darkening the electric azure of the portal. Family was a tall figure in black crossing the distance between you and the twisted remains of the machine that had haunted your nights for thirty years. Family was a six-fingered hand reaching out for a book bound in a burgundy cover.

("Who… who is that?" said Dipper.

The newcomer paused, giving Stan a significant look. Even though his goggles and scarf covered up his features, Stan knew the stranger's face as well as he knew his own.)

Family was the light of hope flickering to life in your chest, as fragile and beautiful as a shooting star.

"The Author of the Journals," Stanley Pines breathed. "My brother."

* * *

Family was a goddamn knife in the back.

Or, in Stan's case, a punch in the jaw.

Even though it had been hours, the one spot where Ford had hit Stan still smarted. Stan looked at his reflection, squinting to see if it would leave a bruise. Next to Stan, Ford stood uneasily. For the first time since he'd come out of the portal, he was looking at Stan with something akin to fondness.

For the tiniest of moments, Stan dared to hope.

"Look at us," said Stan. "When did we become old men?"

"You look like Dad," Ford replied with a touch of humour.

"Ugh!" Stan protested, "don't say that!"

The brothers both let out a laugh; the sound was awkward, nervous, but genuine. A warmth pooled in Stan's guts: against all odds, he'd _succeeded_ , Stanford was back and alive and well, and they'd be brothers again, they'd be a _team_ —

"Okay, Stanley, here's the deal," said Ford. "You can stay here for the summer to watch the kids. I'll stay down in the basement to try to contain any remaining damage." A shadow darkened his face. "But when the summer's over, you give me my house back, you give me my _name_ back, and this Mystery Shack junk is over forever! You got it?"

It was like another punch to the face. No, perhaps it was even more painful this time. This time, Stan had been dragged down from the skies and he had hit the ground running.

It took him some time to regain his bearings. Stan wasn't the only one who'd grown to resemble their father, it seemed.

"You…" Stan began in a hoarse voice, "you really aren't gonna thank me, are you?" Ford remained silent as he knitted his brows in a severe look. Stan swallowed the lump in his throat, and he pointed angrily at his brother's chest. "Fine, on one condition: you stay away from the kids! I don't want them in danger! 'Cause as far as I'm concerned, they're the only family I have left."

That had been the longest conversation Stan had shared with his brother since Ford had come out of the portal.

To Stan's eternal disgust and horror, the kids latched to their new great-uncle immediately. Dipper in particular followed after Stanford like a little puppy: with him, it was always, "Great-Uncle Ford! I've read about this phenomenon in your journal and I was wondering—" or "Great-Uncle Ford! Do you want to continue our DD&MD game?" or even "Great-Uncle Ford! Need help with your work?"

At the last one, Stan had to put his foot down. "No, he doesn't need your help!" he had barked at the boy. "I told you to stay clear from the guy and his work! If you want to make yourself useful, go clean up the yard or something." That had sent Dipper sulking back to his room instead. It was infuriating; the kid had never shown that kind of enthusiasm when it came to helping Stan around the house.

(The kid had never shown that kind of enthusiasm when it came to spending time with Stan _period_.)

But that was not the worse. The worse was realizing that Ford was keeping something from him—something of which the children seemed to be aware.

(The worse was the longing looks Mabel sent her twin whenever Dipper trailed after Ford, and how the boy would clam up the moment she'd ask him how his day had gone at supper.)

To think there had been a time when Stan had _missed_ the guy.

(To think there had been a time when Stan had been ready to give his life so Dipper and Mabel could meet the better of their two uncles.)

After nearly a month of supernatural shenanigans brought about by his idiot brother (Stan had thought he'd seen his fair share of paranormal nonsense, but that time when a board game character had tried to eat Dipper and Ford's brains had _taken the cake_ ), Stan decided he had enough.

The kids were cheerful as they prepared their luggage for their weekend trip. Stan himself left the delicate task of packing his own things in Soos' (kinda) capable hands. This gave him the opportunity to confront Ford without having a pair of curious twelve-year-olds underfoot.

Stanford, of course, was busy being his usual antisocial self in the basement lab. Taking the elevator down to that godforsaken place sent goosebumps of disgust across Stan's skin. Just hearing the beeps of the monitors, just seeing the red and green lights flashing in the darkness, just feeling the cold dampness pressing against his chest… it gave Stan the desire to set it all aflame.

He'd barely set one foot into the control room when Stanford marched over to him, his face cool and still like stone. The bags under his eyes were almost as dark as bruises.

"Stanley," was all Ford said in greetings, "what are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too, bro," Stan replied dryly.

"I didn't know you were coming down here." Ford gave furtive looks behind him. "Next time, I would rather—"

"Whoa, did I interrupt you while you were working on your doomsday device or something?"

A muscle jumped above Ford's brow. He threw the briefest of glances askance. Stan, for his part, could only stare as his brother, dumbfounded. He had meant that as a _joke_.

(Then again, considering the state of the Shack had been when Stan had first come to Gravity Falls, then perhaps Ford was indeed some sort of supervillain/mad scientist combo. That would certainly explain a few things.)

"Well, anyway, I came here to tell you that I'll be gone for the weekend," Stan said. "Me an' the kids, we're going on a little roadtrip for the next two days."

"You're going on a trip?" Ford said sharply. "And you're taking the kids?"

Stan recoiled from his brother. The man's tone had almost sounded… _accusatory_. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?"

"You… this is a terrible idea, leaving the protected space of the—" Suddenly, Ford's eyebrows went up his forehead. "Wait, are you going _outside_ of Gravity Falls?

"What? You telling me I can't leave?"

Ford shook his head. "No. No, this is perfect. Outside Gravity Falls, _he_ can't…" Stan's brother let out an irritated noise and fell silent.

"What? _Who_ can't _what?_ "

"Nothing," Ford answered, cryptic. "Forget I said anything."

Stan could feel the anger boiling up inside him. "Oh yeah, so you can involve the kids in your spooky stuff, but you can't tell me anything, huh?"

"Stanley, some things are beyond my control and—"

"So it was beyond your control to send Mabel on some mystical bullshit quest?"

Ford's pallid cheeks coloured slightly. "Ah, she told you, didn't she?"

"Of course she did!" Stan nearly shouted. "She was so proud she'd gotten beat up on your behalf. Said she'd done this to protect us or whatever."

"What she did was incredibly risky, but her efforts have made all of us safer—"

"I guess you won't tell me the specifics, huh? Can't tell your dumb brother just what you're protecting him from, but you can sure rope a pair of twelve-year-olds into your weird paranormal crap!"

"Well, at least I'm not pretending it all doesn't exist in a misguided attempt to keep them from harm!"

Stan's hands curled into fists. "It's better than throwing them smack in the middle of danger! For one, that stint with the math wizard coulda ended very badly for Dipper!"

"You are as faulty as I am on that count, Stanley."

 _Oh, that smarmy bastard—_ "Shut up!" Stan growled. "Lemme talk! What about that time you gave 'em a mind-control device so they could use it on me? What were you thinking?!"

Ford massaged his temples. "You… you really have no idea what they've faced up to this point, do you? Dipper has told me a bit about his summer so far… and I have a hunch that he hasn't told me _everything_."

Stan froze, cold water running into his veins. The images flashed in his mind, each of them worse than any of Ford's accusations. The dinosaur that had tried to munch on the kids because Stan couldn't be arsed to watch after a pig properly. Gideon's robot blowing up to bits, nearly taking out the twins in the process. Dipper and Mabel huddled up together, screaming, as the zombies shambled closer. Stan tightening his hold on them as the explosives went off behind him, sending the three of them barrelling to the ground below.

Mabel floating near the mouth of the portal, her eyes closed in peaceful acceptance.

Stan struggled to stay upright, his legs suddenly growing wobbly. And those were only the things of which he was _aware_ …

"From your expression, I see you understand my point," said Ford. "If you were truly looking to protect these kids, then you would have sent them home the second it became apparent that they were dealing with the supernatural. Or…" He straightened his spine, now looming over Stan as the latter hunched backwards, "or you could have simply never agreed to watch over them in the first place. You know this town isn't safe. You know it as well as I do."

The words withered in Stan's throat. His arms dropped to his side, his whole body going slack.

"So please don't play the guilt card on me, Stanley. The fate of the world is at stake here. So far, Dipper has proved himself to be an invaluable help." Ford's voice became a murmur as he added, "If it makes you feel any better, I promise to keep him safe."

"Oh, yeah?" Stan said, the vestiges of his animosity flaring up one last time. "Like you've kept that hillbilly friend of yours safe? 'Cause _that_ turned out really well."

Ford blanched, and this time, it was he who seemed to shrink under Stan's stare. "Don't… don't you _dare_ …"

Stan's features twisted into a foul grin. "I'll say whatever the hell I want to say. You can't kick me out—at least, not until the end of summer. That was the deal."

"Yes," Stanford said in a tight voice. "Yes, it was."

For a moment, something raged within Ford's brown eyes. Stan could tell that his brother was itching to give a snappy response. In the end, the man only sighed.

"This is both childish and terribly unproductive," said Ford. "If you'll excuse me, I have many matters to attend to."

"Fine!" said Stan. "Go save the world or whatever. But don't expect me to haul your ass out of trouble when you get in over your head."

Ford's face was impassible. "Yes, I will handle this on my own. As have I always done." Then, more quietly, he added, "It's… better that way."

Despite all his efforts, Stan could not help but wince. _Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want your stupid twin dragging you down, wouldja?_ Instead of voicing his thought aloud, Stan scoffed and turned to leave.

"You…" Ford's voice came softly. Stan stopped and looked at his brother from over his shoulder. "Well… have a nice trip, Stanley."

Stan shrugged. "Whatever. Enjoy your damp cave. It'll do wonders to your back, you'll see. Take it from someone who was forced to spend almost half of his life down here."

Stan walked up to the elevator, leaving Ford to ponder alone in the darkness of the basement. He almost took a perverse pleasure in the stricken, haunted look that he had spied on Ford's face as he turned away.


	10. Age 60 (part II)

Family was a sense of righteous fury that scorched hotter than hell itself.

 _"You two wait here_ , _"_ the demon had thundered, inserting a note of discordant glee in his command. _"I've got some children I need to make into corpses!_ "

Stan and Ford had shouted, _pleaded_ , as the abomination stormed off, his monstrous roars reverberating in the brothers' very bones. Ford hadn't even been able to form words; he had just banged his closed fists on the glowing bars of their cage, his screams growing hoarser by the second. Stan himself was overwhelmed with fear. Never in his life—not even that time in prison when the other inmates had closed in on him with knife-thin grins, not even in the tight oppressiveness of that car trunk, not even on those cold lonely nights he'd spent thinking he'd killed his own twin —had Stanley Pines been so utterly incapable of drowning out the terror currently engulfing every inch of his being.

The undercurrent of horror only receded slightly as he and Ford slumped down on the black brick floor of Bill's Fearamid. Ford handed Stan over a canteen that strongly smelled of cheap whiskey. The alcohol loosened the brothers' tongues, and out came all of Stan's fears, all of his regrets, everything that he had so desperately tried to hide under the gruff and aloof persona of Mr. Mystery. Dad had been right all along, Stan told Ford—the youngest of the Pines brothers was a screw-up, a worthless leech who had only dragged down his family in his fall from grace.

And yet, Stan's twin forgave him everything.

Ford's face was drained of all colours, except for the purplish bags below his eyes. Under his collar and cuffs Stan could spy angry red welts. The air sapped out of Stan's lungs at the sight of these wounds. Just what had that demon done to his brother, all these days he'd been held captive? Ford seemed barely able to stand on his own two feet. His hands shook as he grabbed the bars of their cage; he held them as if it was the only way for him to stand upright.

And _yes_ , Stan could not believe what he saw, but Stanford was blinking back tears. Ford—the man who'd survived three decades away from anything resembling a home, the man who'd managed to hold his own against horrors Stan could not even begin to imagine, the man who happened to be Stan's one and only twin brother—Ford was exhausted, crippled by pain and bereft of all hope—and obviously _terrified_ out of his mind.

The fear went out of Stan like a tide ebbing away from the shore. Instead, all that remained was the anger, white-hot and so achingly, so _reassuringly_ familiar. Stan relished in that fury, in the purity and sheer intensity of the feeling. That thing had laid waste to Stan's home, gleefully destroying the lives of the folks who had kept him afloat in those long, dreary decades spent repairing the portal: lovable oaf Soos, smartass Wendy and the idiotic, but strangely endearing people of Gravity Falls. That demon had manipulated and harassed and _tortured_ Stan's brother, leaving behind a paranoid wreck of a man who was but a mere shadow of the happy boy who had brightened up Stan's childhood. And of course, worse of all, that triangular bastard had the _cojones_ to threaten to rip apart the kids, _Stan's_ kids—and hell would freeze over before he'd let some corn chip cosmic abomination hurt a single hair on their heads.

That piece of shit Bill Cipher was _going down_.

"Sixer," Stan growled, "gimme your coat. And get out of that sweater, _now_."

Ford's expression would have been funny in another situation. "What…? Stanley, have you gone _mad_ …?"

Stan was already putting the fez on his brother's head. He fumbled at his collar to remove his tie. "No, _genius_ , I'm trying to save all of our asses. Now, so help me, get out of that coat, we don't have much time."

Ford gaped at him for a few precious seconds before he seemed to understand Stan's intent. "No… no, no, _no_ … I can't let you do that, Stanley, I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me…"

"Do we have a choice?" Stan said, exasperated. He threw his jacket on Ford and began to unbutton his shirt. "We can't let that bastard win. Not after the hell he's dragged us through." Stan's eyes flicked to the burn marks around his brother's wrists and neck. "That sonuvabitch needs to learn what happens when you screw over a member of the Pines family."

A hint of hysteria slipped in Ford's tone when he spoke next, "No, Stanley, I won't let you. Do you—do you even know what's going to happen to you if your plan fails? What will happen if your plan _works?_ "

"Hey, I've been impersonating you for the past thirty years, Stanford, I know what I'm doing."

Fooling that pyramidal devil would be like fooling everybody else—Shermie and his wife, Stan's nephew Ethan, hell, even _Dad_. Most people always failed to note the obvious differences between the Pines twins, after all.

"No!" Ford cried out. "Don't you understand? The memory gun—it's going to destroy you too! It's going to eradicate what makes you, well, _you!_ You would be gone! Forever! I… I can't _kill_ you, Stanley!"

Stan kicked off his now unlaced shoes. "Alright, then, let's put it that way: you either lose the kids plus the entire world or me. 'S not a difficult decision, now, is it?"

Stan approached his twin, tugging on the man's sleeve. Ford met his gaze; he was unmoving as a block of granite. And so it took only a shared glance for all of Stan's resolve to nearly crumble to dust. He really had believed it would take all of a second for Ford to make his choice. He really had. Perhaps, a lifetime ago, Stan would have been happy beyond belief to have an indisputable proof that his brother still gave a damn about him, despite all the years and the tears. But Stanley Pines had a mission to fulfil, and sentiment was not going to help him accomplish the only worthwhile thing he would ever do in his sixty-something years of living.

"C'mon, Sixer," he told Ford, as gently as he could. "Work with me here." Stan helped Ford out of his coat and sweater—slowly, so it would not irritate the injuries caused by Bill Cipher's twisted ministrations. "Just trust me this once, bro. I'll kick his ass nice and proper for you."

"I'm sorry," Ford replied hoarsely. "I—I wish things could have—" He hung down his head, unable to say more as he handed Stan his sweater. The latter tried not to stare at the array of scars marking the skin below Ford's undershirt. _That's your fault, too_ , _knucklehead_ , Stan noted with a dull pang. Strangely enough, it only served to fuel his anger more. _That's it. I'm gonna do right by him. I'm gonna be the hero the kids always said I was._

Stan slid into the sweater before finally donning his brother's coat. "I know, Poindexter. If you're lucky, maybe the new me will be easier to deal with, huh?" Ford gave a visible flinch, which Stan pointedly ignored. "Try to be nice to him for me, will ya, Ford? And—" The next words were pure torture to enunciate "—and keep an eye out for the lil' squirts. They're strong and stubborn as bark, but…"

Ford pushed his glasses _—Stan's_ glasses, in truth—up his nose and offered his brother a half-hearted smile. "I—I will. Don't worry, Stanley. I promise."

It was a weight off Stan's shoulders. From beyond the doorway where Bill had chased off after the kids, the loud _boom-doom_ s of his footfalls could be heard. The demon was approaching.

Stan fumbled to put on his brother's six-fingered gloves. It was something that he had done countless times before, yet his hands were shaking. His mouth was dry, his head hurt so much it seemed about to split open.

Despite everything he'd said to Ford, Stan was afraid to die.

But he couldn't show it, not when the clock was ticking ominously, not when Ford appeared on the verge of a breakdown, not when that demonic fucker was still out there trying to kill the kids.

But, yes, Stan did not want to die—for the first time in over thirty years. Dying meant washing out the good along with the bad. And there had been so much good lately. Even if those little moments of happiness had been so few and far between, Stanley held them close to his heart, unwilling to part from them. Receiving yet another postcard from Ethan and Stella and putting it with all of the others he'd kept over the years. Teaching Soos how to shave and scaring off the kids who picked on him at school. Chatting over the phone with Abuelita Ramirez about their favourite _telenovas_. Telling Wendy the basics of hotwiring a car and letting her drive the Stanleymobile one time or two. Flirting with the cute waitress at the local diner. Hearing the respect and affection warming up the voices of the townspeople as he walked down the streets of the only home he'd known for almost half his life.

Pulling pranks on Dipper and being pranked in return and laughing breathlessly while chasing the kid around the house. Stroking Mabel's hair until she'd stop crying and seeing the smile emerging on her face like the break of dawn.

All of this—Stan's most precious memories, the only evidence that his life had been worth living—they would be gone forever.

Losing these memories also meant pulling the trigger on the rare dreams Stan still nursed for the future. Losing these memories meant killing his chance to reconcile with his brother. Losing these memories meant he would never see the glorious manner of mischief the twins would cook up as they grew into adults.

"Stanley," Ford said in a little voice, "Stanley, he's coming…"

Stan squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he cast adrift his happy memories—one by one he drowned them in the depths of his mind where they would not be found. He let go of the darker moments as well; the guilt, fear and self-hatred he had carried for the last forty years would only hinder him in this final battle. He prepared his mind, scrubbing it all free, leaving only a blank slate behind.

Soon, Stan had stopped shaking. Once again, he was filled with a pure, familiar sense of rage.

A rage borne out of a desire to protect all that he held dear.

Stan looked at Ford as the roars of the demon grew closer. "Hey, Stanford, there's not much time, but, uh, I gotta say it." He offered a rueful, almost childlike smile. "Sorry, bro. Sorry for all the crap I've pulled."

"Stanley, _no_ , there's nothing to apologize for—"

"An' thanks. For everything. I'm glad that we were born brothers. All in all, my life was crap, but I-I wouldn't change that, at least."

Ford choked. His hand reached for Stanley's. Their fingers brushed in an all-too brief moment; in the distance they both spied a flash of yellow, and Ford retracted his hand.

Stan braced himself, his boxer's instincts kicking in. He did not know what awaited him the moment the pyramidal monstrosity would turn around the corner, but he would be ready. That triangular nuisance would feel the full brunt of a Stanley Pines-patented left hook.

Stan almost savoured the anticipation.

* * *

 _"…_ _what the—?! Oh, no, no, NO—!"_

 _"Oh, yeah," the old man sitting in the yellow sofa said smugly. "You're going down. You're getting erased. Memory gun. Pretty clever, huh?"_

 _"You—you idiot! Don't you realize you're destroying your own mind too?!"_

 _The old man shrugged as the blue flames licked the base of his chair. "Eh. It's not like I was using this space much anyway."_

 _The triangular trickster began to panic. He lunged toward the door, only to shrink back as he realized it had caught fire. "Let me out of here. Let me OUT!"_

 _"Hey!" the old man boomed. He'd gotten out of his sofa. "Look at me. Turn around and look at me, you one-eyed demon!"_

 _The creature, now cowed, did as he was bid._

 _"You're a real wise guy, but you made one fatal mistake." The old man jabbed an accusing finger toward the three-sided devil. "You messed with my family!"_

 _By now, the fire had engulfed almost all of the old man's mindscape, leaving only the two enemies staring at each other amidst the rising flames._

 _"You're making a mistake!" the demon cried. "I'll give you anything! Money, fame, riches, infinite power, your own galaxy… PLEASE!"_

 _His body was starting to melt—no,_ twitch, _like some sort of computer glitch. His single eye bulged out of its socket, his little stubby arms flaying about as the flames encircled them both. The demon's equilateral form twisted, shrank, shattered, liquefied, turned to stone, broke into pieces before reforming in a pale imitation of his original self. He screamed out a series of garbled sounds and reached forward with one hand, his eye glowing red with hatred and fear._

"… _STANLEY!"_

 _The old man's fist punched him out of existence._

 _In the end, killing Bill Cipher had been as easy as fighting the schoolyard bullies off Ford's back._

 _Panting, the victor stood alone, unperturbed by the blue inferno raging around him. He shot an anguished look over his shoulder. Next to his sofa could be found a photograph depicting him with two children. The old man took the wooden frame and smiled at the boy and the girl beaming at him from behind the glass._

 _"Heh," the old man said as the flames enveloped him. He could not even sense their heat upon his skin. "Guess I was good for something after all…"_

* * *

Family was… well, the man kneeling in the clearing wasn't exactly aware of what family was, in truth.

He remembered the definition in the dictionary. A group of human beings closely related by blood. A unit living under the same roof. A couple of people bound together by an ever-encompassing force for which he had no name. The man knew the words, but they seemed to mean very little to his mangled mind. It was very strange, truly.

A faint wind stirred some leaves off the ground. In the distance sang a few birds; the man could spy their dark silhouettes against the pure blue of the sky. The grass was a little humid beneath his pants. He shuffled his knees, shivering despite his woollen sweater and long coat. A faint ache diffused through each of his limb, but other than that, he was strangely content. His head seemed to be stuck in an invisible vise, however.

"Oh my gosh!" a voice called out from beyond the pine trees. Soon, three people—a boy, a girl and an old man in a black suit—were emerging from the forest. The girl sauntered over to the man in the clearing; she'd run so fast it almost appeared as if she couldn't bear to be apart from him another second. She put something on his head—some kind of weird, cylindrical hat, it seemed—and said happily, "Grunkle Stan! You did it!"

Her little hands came to rest on his shoulders. By instinct, his own hands reached for hers. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but at least she was smiling.

"Uh, hi, uh, _kiddo_ ," the man said, uncertain. "What's your name?"

The girl glanced askance at the boy next to her. The man took note of the blue pine tree stitched on the kid's cap. The girl was clad in a pink sweater decorated with a shooting star. Lastly, he noticed their expressions: the two children looked as if they'd been punched in the gut.

"G-Grunkle Stan?" the girl managed to utter.

The man with the strange hat surveyed his surroundings. There seemed to be no one save for the four of them. "Uh," he said, "who are you talking to?"

The girl drew back, her eyes welling up some more. The old man in the suit reached out as if he wanted to comfort her. His attempt failed miserably; now, big fat tears were coming out of her eyes and she was shaking from head to toe.

"It's me, Grunkle Stan!" The girl launched herself forward, almost as if she wanted to embrace the man she called Stan. Instead, she pointed at her chest, telling him in a grief-stricken voice, "Grunkle Stan, it's me! It's _me!_ " She stumbled on her words and faltered, her little legs buckling under her weight.

The old guy and the boy caught her, dragging her shaking, sobbing form away from the man kneeling in the grass.

"We had to erase his mind to get rid of Bill," the grey-haired man explained to the child as tears streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head, her face going white with disbelief. "It's all gone."

'Stan' found the other man's gaze. A pair of tired, mournful brown eyes stared back at him. 'Stan' noted the man's disheveled grey hair and chalky complexion; he spotted the dark patches of blood shining on the black of his suit. Something stirred within him. 'Stan' did not know this old man or the two children who hovered about him, but there was something absolutely unbearable about the agony etched on every inch of their faces.

"Stan has no idea, but he did it," the old guy in the suit said softly. He went to one knee, putting a trembling hand on the other man's shoulder. "He saved the world. He saved _me_." The grey-haired man sniffed, and he could not stop his voice from wavering as he said, "You're our hero, Stanley."

He enveloped 'Stanley' in a hug, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. The collar of 'Stanley's' turtleneck sweater was soon damp with the old man's tears. The guy smelled rank, his clothes reeking with the mixed stench of charred skin, sweat and blood. Yet 'Stanley' felt his remaining tensions easing up. He sank into the stranger's embrace, closing his eyes.

This was not so bad—the warmth, the sense of completeness, the simple reassurance brought about by human contact.

Whatever family was, the man named Stanley felt he could definitely get used to it.


	11. Epilogue

Out in the Arctic Ocean, an old man dreamed of stars and trees.

Above the cold grey waves, the heavenly canopy stretched wide, hundreds of thousands of faraway lanterns pinpricking the velvety blue. The sea surf gently rocked a single, solitary boat. The old man was sprawled on his back on the deck, lulled to sleep by his brother's voice as the man rhapsodized about the stars. The gentle comfort of his twin's familiar tones and the simple, childlike joy expressed in every word weaved through the vivid imagery spawned by the dreamer's slumbering consciousness. Constellations and comets and other astral phenomena populated his mindscape, bringing light and life back to a greyscale vault of once-broken memories.

The old man dreamed of the home he'd found amongst the pine trees. He visualized a sturdy shack made of wood, the floors littered with a lifetime's worth of useless, but well-loved knickknacks, the walls covered by dozens of pictures of smiling children. He remembered the two kids keeping the hearth fires burning while he was out adventuring at sea—the motherless boy and girl who had latched to his forested shelter like a pair of rogue satellites settling in orbit around a new planet.

And most of all, the old man thought of the twin stars which shone the brightest in his makeshift heavens, the constellation of two whose roots ran deep under the house he and his brother had built. The littlest pines had held up against a firestorm that had decimated trees older and taller than they were. Their colours—bright pink and vivid red and soft blue—painted over the dull hues of the destroyed forest and the sad grey of the skies, turning a deadened husk of a place into the most beautiful of landscapes. And so, bit by bit, other saplings broke from the darkness of the earth, reaching out for the stars beckoning above.

Family was rising to stand prouder than ever, hand-in-hand with the people whose lives intertwined with yours.

Family was daring to dream again.

* * *

 _A/N: That's all, folks! A huuuge thanks to all of you who read and left a comment on this little foray into Stan's mind. This was surprisingly fun (and cathartic, in a way) to write. Stan is rather endearing, for a gross old man (as Mabel would put it)..._


End file.
